Maybe even weekly. Write in this blog, that is. Not sure why it’s so hard to build a practice, but from what I have learned in my x-number of years riding around the sun, the problem is real, and I am not unique. Building a practice takes time, effort, no regard for failure, patience, and perseverance. Probably some other characteristics as well, but you get my point. The road to hell, and all of that. Here I am. Back on Intention Road.
A friend started a blog (with encouragement from me, I might add) and he writes, not like clockwork, but far more often than me. His thing is theology, and his approach leans toward the academic. Whenever I get one of his posts in my email, I read it with interest, and then remind myself I should get up off my butt and fire up WordPress as well.
I also encouraged him to write the novel he’d been pondering for nearly a decade, but he hasn’t done that yet. I, on the other hand, have published my first novel! The title is Sawdust and Dreams, and I published it just before Christmas. It is the sequel to Christmas at the Inn, which I originally published in 2015, with Annie Acorn Publishing LLC, but she retired at the end of 2019 and returned the rights to me, so I re-published it in January of 2020. Christmas at the Inn sold very well – over 40,000 copies, and when I first published it, readers were clamoring for more of the story, and I started the second story, but life and death happened, so it was several years before I got to finish editing and finally publish Sawdust and Dreams. Here’s the Amazon link for Sawdust and Dreams, in case you want to read it.
Damn, I hate cancer! It’s been almost two and a half years since TT died, and it has only been in the last few months that words have begun to flow again. Trauma and loss will do that to a person. A friend told me she couldn’t write for four years after her husband died.
Anyway, I’m not here to lament. I’m here to say hello.
I think another book might be underway, but what has finally taken hold is a need and desire to keep a journal. I really enjoy the freedom of it, and sometimes what comes through gives me pause. Perhaps you keep a journal as well and have experienced the same. Where do those profound thoughts come from, anyway? I don’t know, but I sure like exploring it. My higher self tells me repeatedly that I should write for myself and not worry about anything else. If I do that, everything else will fall into place. That is what I have chosen to believe and am following suit.
From a page a few weeks ago:
Thank you for words, but where does my eloquence go when I pick up my pen? It flies away, to a tree top, perhaps, from where it taunts me about my inability to reach it. This morning I will turn my back on Miss Fickle Eloquent and write gratitude with simplicity, but no less from my heart.
Thank you for reading this. I’ll be back.
Andrea du Jour 