I suppose that my life’s ambition is be greater than what I see myself as currently. I have been told multiple times that I have a great capacity for many a talent. I have crossed myself in my endeavors to better them. In business, you take time, money, resources, and invest them into a project and expect a return on your investment. Outside of this, or inside of this, are many talents, ones of which I feel flustered over because either, I am not good enough to make a living off of them, or I don’t know how to use them properly. The real question is, why invest time in talents if I will not receive a benefit for them? I need to have joy in the doing. Why do I write books? Because I enjoy it!
It is a love-hate relationship because as I put to pen the words in my head, I am please with the fluidity in which they appear on the page. I am flustered though because even as I write the words, I know they are not good enough to capture the moment, the essence, the emotion, the vision that I have for that story. I see in my mind, how the story should go, the specific, tenuous details that add to the emotion, the raw terrific emotion of the moment, and I know that the words I put down are not good enough. I continue to write over and over and over again, in hopes of achieving that goal, of reaching that summit where I can look back on my work, and say as the Great Creator said, “It is good.”
And even if that event is achieved, who is to say that it will be liked? Who is to say that a living could be made off of it? Who is to say that it will be successful? There are some who had taken NYT bestselling books, and re-submitted them, and been rejected by the same publishers that published them. The truth of the matter is, no one knows what will be successful in the market place. As this is the case, there are only two things that make or break a published book: You! Luck! I will do all that I can to succeed, to be true to the art, the muse, the story in my head, the characters, the powers at be. I will honor the story I write, in hopes that it will honor me with luck. And if I fail, than I blame myself for the lack of success by which the work wrought.
Let ink and pen be had!
Let parchment and tablet be found!
Let the lyric and its sonnet,
and the rose colored word find its way into my hands.
Let it begin,
Lo! the artist awakes
The pen strikes the parchment as a sword to a dragon’s chest
The story unfolds, the muse,
She whispers
It is a love-hate relationship because as I put to pen the words in my head, I am please with the fluidity in which they appear on the page. I am flustered though because even as I write the words, I know they are not good enough to capture the moment, the essence, the emotion, the vision that I have for that story. I see in my mind, how the story should go, the specific, tenuous details that add to the emotion, the raw terrific emotion of the moment, and I know that the words I put down are not good enough. I continue to write over and over and over again, in hopes of achieving that goal, of reaching that summit where I can look back on my work, and say as the Great Creator said, “It is good.”
And even if that event is achieved, who is to say that it will be liked? Who is to say that a living could be made off of it? Who is to say that it will be successful? There are some who had taken NYT bestselling books, and re-submitted them, and been rejected by the same publishers that published them. The truth of the matter is, no one knows what will be successful in the market place. As this is the case, there are only two things that make or break a published book: You! Luck! I will do all that I can to succeed, to be true to the art, the muse, the story in my head, the characters, the powers at be. I will honor the story I write, in hopes that it will honor me with luck. And if I fail, than I blame myself for the lack of success by which the work wrought.
Let ink and pen be had!
Let parchment and tablet be found!
Let the lyric and its sonnet,
and the rose colored word find its way into my hands.
Let it begin,
Lo! the artist awakes
The pen strikes the parchment as a sword to a dragon’s chest
The story unfolds, the muse,
She whispers
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