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Monday, March 12, 2018

Since I Became a Writer

Regrets. I fulfilled ambitions. Goals were met. But I feel it hasn’t been without casting off bits and pieces of my soul along the way. Sure, the education is fantastic. I love the many things I’ve learned. Not only about writing but also publishing, querying, and marketing.

The biggest regret though is editing, piercing the mind’s eye and getting to the story via words, storyline, and clarity. Focusing on my personal work is illuminating. But unfortunately, no one gave me the off switch and I can’t turn it off.

And the horrible unintended consequence? Reading for pleasure.

Since I was six, I read everything I could get my grubby hands on. Tom Jones, Bambi, The Black Stallion books. The Three Musketeers and about every Heinlein book.

Arthur C. Clarke, J.R.R. Tolkein, J.K. Rowlings, Tom Clancy.

The Rabbi books by Harry Kelmelman (Friday, the Rabbi Slept Late, Thursday the Rabbi Walked Out), Mary Stewart (Airs Above Ground, The Ivy Tree).

So many great books. So many wonderful places I’ve gone without leaving my house.


Once any book, any genre interested me. Fiction, fantasy, autobiography. Any novel, any subject.
I don’t know what happened. But my lack of interest coincided with becoming an author.

Am I alone or have others have found themselves in the same patch of the woods.