blog each and every day this month although it was certainly touch
and go for a while. Trying to write every day makes me so much more
aware of my paltry efforts. At my speed, should I ever take it into
my head to construct a novel, it would be years before even a first
draft got completed.
Writing is wonderful and a skill to be greatly admired. Those
intrepid folk who push their minds to author and then manage to
actually get the ideas from brain to print form receive my heartiest
thanks. I'm much better and happier a reader than I ever will be a
writer. I listen to members of my authors group telling their need to
write and I'm shamed by my own ability to avoid and make excuses not
to. Not so much that I spend hours toiling at my stories or that I
hover over a well-worn keyboard. No stubs of pencils litter my desk.
I travel most times with neither notebook or scrap of paper at hand.
Only my own commitment and sheer stubbornness pulled me through the
every-day-in-November writing. That and the thought of the wonderful
few who bother to read, the even fewer who comment and return. What
is wrong with you anyway?