It's got to stop. I write as me. Pure and simple. I'll never write as Tolstoy. I don't want to, though I love his stuff. I'll never be able to draw. That's why God made illustrators. I don't want to take away their livelihoods. *g*
But I've discovered, much against my mother and my husband's wisdom, that I have a truly wondrous imagination. I can create characters that are memorable, in their own right. I can keep a battle bloody. Tension exudes from the pages of my books and short stories. I create some awesome cliffhanging chapters.
I will keep these thoughts, these positive vibes, uppermost in my mind. I will be me. I will enjoy me. And my writing.
There is a place in the universe for what I write. There is an audience out there somewhere, waiting with bated breath for 'Blue.' The wonderfulness of my own creation - not someone else's.
On that note, I finished Ch. 45. Started Ch. 46. I think there will only be a couple more chapters and then, 'Blue' will be complete. Well, as complete as can be at this moment. I've got a truckload of editing to do, but I'm really excited about it. I know what needs to be added. That's half the battle.
I gave myself 'til November 17th to finish 'Blue.' I think I will make that easily. If another 'Sandy' doesn't happen and I lose power again.
Life is fulfilling.