Wednesday, February 28, 2024

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

 

 https://www.amazon.com/kindle-dbs/entity/author/B0082D161E

 

 

 

 

 

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