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Why did I write this….

My pages are bleeding!

Not really but I’ve been very liberal with the red pen today. You see, I started editing the first draft of my second novel. I’m already wondering if half of what I wrote it complete and utter garbage. I feel that way about almost everything I write though. I’m my harshest critic.

My husband read the first page and got called away to work. He’s dying to read the rest. Wait for the paperback love!! Ha!!!

I’ve always been my toughest critic though. In my business, I critique everything I do with a golden yardstick. Then beat myself up with that golden yard stick when it’s not up to my standards. In my writing, the same holds true. Only this yard stick is titanium. Shiny and unyielding.

I didn’t always want to be an author. As a kid, I wanted to be a pediatrician. Then a pop star. Then a dancer. Eventually, I realized I didn’t want to go to school and be paying for school until I died, so there went a medical career. I loved to sing snd dance, but kid of a single working parent meant sacrifices like no dance class or voice lessons. I settled for school choir and cheerleading.

It wasn’t until I wrote my first church production that I realized I truly wanted to be an author. Like a published, holy cow that’s my book on the shelf, you can find me on Amazon, author. Watching the words take shape on the page was like watching my kids come screaming into the world; messy and utterly terrifying!!

I have no idea if my second novel will be better or worse than the first. I’d like to think I improve the more I write. Orrrrrrr, I could be staring at the pages muttering to myself, “why did I write this?”

The pages run red….

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