This week, a rainbow glows above the house where I live with the man of my dreams and the World’s Greatest Dog. The sun is shining. My children have called every day to tell me
how much they love me. Godot showed up to ask if I’d been waiting for him, as did Mr. Goodbar.
Why? Because my agent loves my current WIP (not to be confused with he thinks it’s perfect), the one I spent 14.8 years re-writing, the last time in blood.
Life wasn’t always like this. Fifteen years ago, I had no idea it would take me so f*** long to achieve one scrawny, measly dream, or that I’d go through so many prequels to what would finally be The Book. The question that intrigues most writer friends (and the one I ask each time one of them launches their book) is how did I get here? What’s the good and bad that made my writing work–and not work? I hate analyzing myself–for me, introspection is as much fun as going to the opera. I write. I edit. I rewrite. I don’t think deep thoughts about who I am or where my existential self is going. Sure, I’ve been told by my toxic critique group and a few well-meaning friends that I don’t ramp up the drama fast enough for a thriller (my chosen genre). My characters’ motivations aren’t believable. The stakes aren’t high enough even after the thirteenth rewrite. Or the fourteenth.
Or the fifteenth.
Many times, I felt like a violin in a marching band.
But what I do well as a writer is I never give up. I don’t know the meaning of that phrase. How does one ‘give up’? I tried to after the failure of Book #1, the soul-seering paleo-historic biography of pregnant Lucy, trying to survive in a world that had stacked the deck against her. No one–I mean no one–found it appealing. Not agents, not my family, and most pointedly, not my annoying critique group (though they’ve never liked a thing I wrote). Since I took up writing to tell Lucy’s story, I decided to quit.
















































