Writing is Hard

Writing is Hard

It’s been a while. Since I posted, since I wrote, since I was honest with myself. I published my first book in print December of last year and it was the worst experience of my life. Needless to say, I won’t be finishing the series so I don’t even bother promoting the book. I would hate that, to read a book and then never know what happened.

I took the whole thing pretty hard. In addition to the bad reviews, there are typos galore and I can only blame myself for that. They’re my words. It was my story. If there is a to where there should’ve been a too, I have no one to blame but myself. The problem, I mean the crushed-my-soul-and-left-me-broken problem was that I allowed myself to think I’d done something worthwhile. For just a brief moment in time, I entertained the idea that I, little ‘ol me, was a good writer. I’m not. I can tell a story with the best of them, but the actual art of writing is something I still need to work on.

So here we are, damn near a year later and I haven’t written anything new at all. I have seven things in progress, one of which I would like to finish, but I don’t even know who wrote those words anymore. I feel so very jaded at this point, just about life in general. I remember when my heart was carefree and I would argue with someone for hours about love and how it was the most important force on this earth. Now I tend to think the ability to forgive and move on trumps all, and sadly, I’ve never been good at either of those things.

I feel like I’ve got a lot of support coming my way on the home front, so this is the first step in officially climbing back on the wagon. I’m happier when I write and a happy Christy is good for everyone.

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