I’m test driving my new blog. It has been suggested that since I am endeavoring to become a full time author, that I should share my experience with the world. It’s the new way to keep up with the Jones. It’s a lot less expensive than buying a Mercedes, so I’m giving it a try. After considerable resistance to the idea.
(By the way, that reminds me. Amanda, I owe you an apology. I’m sorry. I should have listened to you earlier.)
I would like to start by saying something insightful and witty, but I have spent the last 6 weeks on a manuscript polishing binge, and just sent it off to my publisher today. I haven’t quite been reduced to posting a cat with a heart painted on it, but it was a near thing. I knew that perhaps I was in too deep when I heard someone use passive voice in everyday conversation, and I saw a cursor pop up, delete the offending language, and type in the correct verb tense.
So, where do I start this tale of an epic journey of a writer through her first novel? Three years ago, of course, when a wise and wonderful friend turned to me and said, “Tina, I want you to write me a story. I don’t care what it’s about, I just want you to write it.”
Her words galvanized something in me, and I decided to do just that. In all fairness, however, my husband deserves a lot of credit for this as well. He had tried for years to get me to commit myself to my passion, but I refused to listen. He laid the crucial groundwork that got me to the place where I could hear Amanda’s request and respond to it, but it seems terrifically unfair for him to do a lot of the work and get none of the credit. Unfortunately for him, he’s married to an artist, and we’re fickle.
I knew what I was going to write within days of Amanda’s request. It sprang into my mind, fully formed, my Athena of previously considered story lines and already developed characters. Self, I asked myself, can I do this?
Of course I can, I replied.