I’ve started and abandoned this blog post three times now.
The first time was in October after I finished the majority of my book’s edits, but I was confused about what comes next in my publishing career. The second time I tried writing this was in December when I got overwhelmed by my options.
And now it’s January 2021, and the world is exploding.
My little romance book feels very insignificant in the grand scheme of things, as does my musings about it. People are dying of COVID, our democracy is crumbling, the wealth gap is growing, and the ice caps are melting. It’s a grim time to be alive. Yet another part of me feels like if I can’t celebrate this very big win in my very small life, then what’s left? If everything good must be overshadowed by the terrible, then (to quote a cliché) the terrorists have won.
So…
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When I began this freelance writing caper, I had a lot of unrealistic expectations. Most notable include:
It’s been a year since I quit working full time to become a writer. More specifically, to focus on writing my novel. You know, THE NOVEL. “The book of my heart,” the piece of fiction I gave up dental insurance for. The thing that I was sure would come together easily once I could devote all my headspace to it. The creative word baby that could only be fed by time.
Recently I saw a tweet by 
When I attended my first Romantic Times (RT) Convention in Atlanta 