For months now, I’ve bullied myself over my book. I harangue myself for being past the deadline–the one I thought I should have reached by now. Each time I read through my manuscript, I make changes and pray they will be the last. Strangely enough, I’m beginning to actually enjoy the process of late. Polishing up my book will simply taking longer than I had anticipated, but will be much better in the end. And besides, why have a deadline?
It feels like I’m walking barefoot in the snowdrift outside my door, and leaving deep imprints on the frozen landscape. Beginning a new blog feels the same…like mincing cold-footedly through the how to’s and what for’s of a new dashboard.
Slippery and cold terrain for me.
Getting used to the convent was worse, because I was only fifteen years old and four hundred miles from home.
So, for the past few years, I’v been up to my eyeballs putting words on paper, and trying to slog my way through the writing terrain. I aim to finish and finally published a book by the end of 2014.
Wish me luck.