It’s been several weeks since I spoke with my new editors and I sit on a beehive’s nest fearful my work will come back looking as if it spent its final days at BQB Publishers walking through a field of prickly-thorned bramble bushes with bloody slash marks covering all the pages. The creative writing process is the easy part. It’s been said that only takes 30% of your time. It’s all the editing that occurs afterwards that’s overwhelming, even mind boggling. Re-write, corrections, add aseconddraftfrombasicbasesnd deletes consume the final hours often causing you to want to give up and throw it all against the wall. I remember when I wrote my first manuscript, by the time I was done, I hated the main character. This doesn’t bode well when the person you’re writing about is yourself.

Some people have asked what do I expect to happen with this new adventure of becoming a published author. Will I become famous? Will the book become a best seller and will I get to quit my day job and write off into the sunset? To be honest, I have no expectations. One of the blessings of turning 61 is that I now leave my days in the hands of the universe as I let my life unfold each day. Ultimately, everything that happens is for my highest and greatest good, even when I wish it was otherwise

As a child, I had no voice. Living a busy home filled with 3 brothers, loud noises, disgusting body sounds, and high volume blasting from the latest sporting event on TV, I felt what I had to say was inconsequential. So, my world was lived in my head and my countless journals as I hid in my room.

Discovering I had a voice in the written word, I now say everything I couldn’t so long ago. If this resonates with someone, I’m thrilled. But my main purpose for writing, even if it gets no farther than my inner circle and children, is because I love it. I do it for me.

Sitting at my computer or with my latest blank-paged diary, pen in hand, thoughts pour onto the pages that had once been locked away. Writing for me has been the biggest form of self-discovery. It’s allowed me to be patient with myself, forgive myself, and love myself.

We all have a story to tell. By putting it down on paper, you pass on a form of history for your children and your children’s children. It’s not only a way to be remembered, but a way to carry on forever. As long as our names are said out loud, we will never die.

Do you love to write? I’d love to know how the process speaks to you.