The story of us was too hard to write, too close to home when my world is teetering on an axis that feels as if it is made of spaghetti being slowly cooked by the heat of the earth’s core. I still have goals, though, and one of them was to finish a book this year. So I have written 22,541 words of a novel so far this month. I’ve also decided that this one will no live under my bed when it is complete, but will be sent to a peer for an early read and review. I have too many goals in life to keep letting fear of failure stop me — I am creating failure by hiding completed manuscripts under my bed or forcing words into a manuscript that is frozen right now, waiting for the rest of the story to unfurl before I complete it.
I am rekindling my dream of publishing, even if only ten people read my book at least I know I wrote it and made the leap. Stomping out my fear of rejection feels good.