This week I realized something fantastic, when it comes to page count, my novel is halfway there.
Earlier this year I began writing several short stories, and then it happened. I looked at the files and it hit me, there weren’t just stories, they were also chapters, chapters in search of something more, in search of a home.
Well, I couldn’t just ignore them, leave them all alone and filed away from each other. I had to do something to help them, something to help the chapters and also myself. That’s when I decided it was time.
Over the last few years, several of my friends have suggested that I write a book about my life. Each time I responded with something like,
“Why would anyone care about my life? I’m just not vain like that. ”
I’m not writing a book about my life, well kinda, yes and no. My book does not detail anyone from my life, or my relationships, such as marriages or my two ex-wives. I’m not using my book to strike out at anyone, or for revenge of any kind.
My book is a work of fiction, with drama, mystery, crime, horror, love, suspense, fantasy, and a little more. Okay, maybe it is about my life.
October 2, 2019