I’ve never considered myself to be a writer, so the advice doesn’t apply. Not an honest to God writer like, Norah Roberts or some of the other famous well-known romance authors. I DABBLE with words. They poured out of me when I could write. Not necessarily in a way that made sense, but at least they flowed through my fingers and ended in some makeshift form onto a page. Now, all I have is a blank screen. It’s been that way for weeks, and it’s beginning to freak me out.
Writers tell you to write every day. Sorry, but I’m sick of writing grocery lists or things-to-do lists. Does that count? Is it writing? It’s barely two-hundred words, certainly not the minimum twenty-five hundred words they recommend. I don’t have twenty-five hundred words in me.
Deep down, I knew this would end. I was an accountant. Accountants don’t write. They understand numbers, not words. At least now I have a cause for my dried up brain.
My writer friends try to encourage me. “Write anything,” they say.
“Like what? I can’t think of anything. That’s the problem,” I counter in despair.
“Write one sentence. It will come.”
I open a new word doc and write, ‘Mary loves John.’ . . . I DON’T THINK SO.
“It’s not working,” I lament.
“Then read. It will inspire you.”
So I read. And I read. And I read. Great books and not such great books, but I read. All day. All night. I read until, my eyes blur, and I fall asleep clutching my Kindle.
It doesn’t help. I hate the authors. How dare they flaunt their talent in my face?
“Trust me, you’ll get it back. One of these days, it will be there.”
“Shut-up, you wench.”
I hear laughter. My friends find this amusing. They’re laughing at my distress. They are so not taking me seriously. But it’s better than the ‘tut-tut’ of sympathy.
“It’s back,” I lie. “I’m writing.”
“I knew you would. What’s it about.”
“It’s the best writing I’ve done, ever. It’s a secret.” More lies.
“Can’t wait to read it.” The ‘pat’ response to any writer. I’m beginning to see how fake some of these phrases are. No one can read that many books. Not even me, as I devour at least six a week; more if I don’t fall asleep.
“How’s it coming?” My concerned writer friends ask.
More lies. Always lies. I pretend I’m about to unveil the greatest book since the Outlander series took the romance world by storm. Instead of Mary loves John, I should start with; Claire loves Jamie. Maybe that would inspire me.
I disappear for days. Not literally disappear, but I am absent on social media and messenger. My lies begin to get to me.
I gradually make my way back. I miss the quizzes. You know, like; which house should you live in? Castle, if anyone is interested.
“Hi.” What else can I say? I throw it out there hoping they haven’t forgotten me.
“Hey,” I was worried about you. I called, but you didn’t answer. I thought you were probably deep into your manuscript.”
Oh, God! I must confess. “I scrapped it.” It’s better than saying it didn’t exist. A half-lie.
“Outlander has already been written.” I start to laugh. Hysterically. Losing it.
“Oh my God! You need help. Write a blog.”
So I did.
Patricia Hudson was born in Wales, U.K. As a young girl she moved to America with her family and currently resides on a small horse farm in central Illinois, with her husband, David, two dogs, and her beloved quarter horse.
She has written seven books: Stolen Hearts released in 2013. The Call, Love on the Double T, Love’s Deception, and The Exchange to be published in 2014. Also in production are Bear Run and Jana Morgan, PI.
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