No Ghost here…
Maybe I should have a ghost do my writing. I struggle with being consistent here on this lonely little page of mine. It calls to me to come post something, but I tend to ignore the pleading that an inanimate object can create. (a page is an inanimate object. Isn’t it?)
When the struggle isn’t getting the best of me I come here
to see if perchance some internet surfer lost their way and landed on the shore
of my page. Often as not, there are no traceable footprints in the sand. Sigh*
But today my motivation was seeing Oprah's book club
choice. I don’t really follow her choices. In fact, I’ll admit that I’ve never
read one of her choices. So it’s lost on me. But what did get my attention was
the term—ghost writer.
My inner bedraggled writer who spends hours at her keyboard
while her first cup of coffee goes stone cold, and her back aches wants to
protest. So I will. It’s my prerogative.
I’ll admit first that I can be very believing of people. I think
too naive if the truth is told. And that’s another point in my rant - Honesty in
the book writing world. Sure, I guess I could have a better chance at a #1 Best
Seller if I had an English major with credentials a mile long helping me write with
a creative literary mind for which I would take the credit. But alas, it’s only
me.
But as it’s said by anyone who really stands behind their
efforts, if I win—I did it. If I lose—I did it. I’m a one woman writer. I start
the book; I spend waking hours and sometimes have to get up at night to peck
out a thought so as not to lose it. I format, edit, and edit and edit… and even
then I don’t get it all right. But the book is solely mine.
They become like my children. I almost don’t want to fledge
them into the world where they are rejected or not even picked to have a page
or two of them read. If they even became like the last kid to be picked in a
gym class would be something. It doesn’t hurt my ego; it hurts my dedicated
writer’s heart.
It takes a lot out of a person to sit and write books. You get
lost in the character’s lives. People that you created for whatever reason end
up one day saying goodbye when the book is finished. I actually have felt
lonely for some of the characters I spent hours with.
I might as well go ahead and get this rant over with. In
today’s messed up society I think my stories are a breath of fresh air. They
are GOOD stories. They have good outcomes. I play fair with my potential
readers. I try to create books that people can relate to and come away with being
entertained by a memorable character or
at least didn’t spend their time and money on trashy verbiage.
Okay, I’m done. I’ve had my say. I’m going to go back and
work on my next book just because I can’t NOT write. How’s that for good English!
Just in case, if by Divine guidance you stumbled upon
this page and found an honest one woman self-published, self-written dedicated
author of great unread books, here are a few titles you might want to go
investigate.
Tangled Lives
The Others
The Making of Dexter Bridgestoke’s Bequeath
A Stone’s throw away from Christmas
God declares, Tell them I AM: Too deep a Gethsemane
Guilty Innocence
Whales in the Pond
A Clap of Thunder
Eternity’s Portal
January Sky
These are two of my personal stories about my life.
Bullied from the Womb
Walking through the Valley of Mud
If you should read any of my books and leave a review—good or
bad—I’ll be extremely grateful.
I’m done with my ranting now.
God Bless
