Some days, I wonder why I write stories. Is it to get published? Yep. Can’t deny that one. Is it to be read and heard, and maybe loved? Oh, yes. But why does it make me ache if I don’t?
Where you might see softness, I can find strength. Where you think you’ve found weakness, I can see depth.
My first book. Beginning, middle, end. First draft, second draft, final draft. Darlings killed, darlings slayed. Done.