On the Subject of Writing

I am in the process of learning how to write and publish a book. I am realizing what great lengths one has to go to from concept to publication. It is not a challenge for the timid. There is so much to learn and so much refining to do, that thinking about the next step can be overwhelming.

Writing a novel requires from me characteristics that I’m not sure I have and skills I still need to learn. Like good storytelling, organizational skills, garnering support, grammatical proficiency, social bravery, marketing, and salesmanship. It’s much harder than the days of turning in an English paper and getting back warm fuzzy comments beside the big A at the top of my page.

I hope to end up with a published work. I was hoping it would have happened by now, but I was naive to think I could waltz through the process without putting in some hard work. Learning from those who have gone before me is a big help, but they can’t do it for me.

Writing this blog seems like child’s play in comparison, even on a hard day. Still, I love to write. I love thinking about my characters and how they will respond in different situations. I love to watch them grow and learn. I laugh when they laugh and I cry when they cry.

I decided to share bits and pieces here and there between some of my normal posts, to test my market. So here goes with my first few paragraphs.

CHAPTER ONE:
Over the Mountain
Tate hesitated. With one hand on the doorknob and one hand clinging to the strap of her backpack, she glanced around her bedroom one last time. Her heart skipping beat, as her gaze lingered on the photograph that hung above her bed, drawing the memory deep into her heart. It was one of her happiest memories. She was maybe five or six, building a sandcastle with her mom and dad. Now, at seventeen, Tate noticed she looked a lot like her mother, with her shoulder-length brown hair falling in waves, framing her hazel eyes and pale complexion. Her smile, though, was just like her dad’s; crooked, almost a smirk. Her heart argued for her to take the photo with her, but her mind stood firm. No, she thought, my room has to look normal.
Dropping her hand from the doorknob, Tate walked around the room. She recalled her excitement when her mom helped her pick everything out. The delicate pink-flowered comforter that was worn and yellowed now. The sheer pink curtains which softened her view of the barren trees that frightened her as a child. And on top of her white dresser with the pink flower knobs, sat her well-loved bunny, Felicia, which she had rescued from a box in the attic. She picked up the bunny, gave it a hug and a kiss, “Sorry, Felicia, you need to stay here in this little girl’s room.”
Steeling her heart, Tate flipped the switch and headed downstairs.
Tate’s four-year-old cousin, JJ, was playing with his trucks on the living room floor. “Hey, Little J, come here and give me a squeeze, I’m going to be gone awhile.”
“Where you goin’, Tay’yn?” JJ asked running and jumping up into a hug.
Tate held back tears. “I’m going away for a while. You be good for your mama.” She set him down in the middle of his trucks.

Let me know what you think 🤔.

2 thoughts on “On the Subject of Writing

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