Thoughts from an Adult(ish) Writer
After typing “The End” for the first time, I sent the first draft of my book to Staples to have it printed. Hey, at over 110,000 words, it was way too much to try to squeeze out of our old ink jet printer. After reducing the fonts and margins as much as possible, I got the book down to 350 8.5 x 11 pages. So, ok, that’s not ideal, but doable. Continue reading “The Remarkable reMarkable”
I may have peaked as a writer when I was eight and won a young author’s award for a short story. I got to meet a REAL DEAL author (Jane Yolen, I still read my copy of Dragon’s Blood!) and attend a full-day conference with a lot of other aspiring writers. I’ve since dabbled in poetry, short stories, essays, articles, and novels. I’ve dreamed of quitting my day jobs to be a full-time writer but always came up with a million excuses why it was an impractical dream. Or why I didn’t have the time. Or the talent. Or the imagination.
So I’d write for a while, get stuck, get bored, or put my energy into a different kind of distraction. I treated my writing as a hobby because I wasn’t sure I’d actually ever be capable of finishing a book. And if I did finish that book, I wasn’t sure if even my mom would want to read it. And let me tell you, that woman’s a reader.
One random day, I was cleaning up my email, probably procrastinating something adultish I needed to do, and came across one of the many online programs that invite you to join them and write a book. I paused, finger hovering over the delete button…