
You know the kind, right? A Tear-Your-Hair-Out Day.
I'm having one. Can't get my latest proposal to work. It's just all...blechhh.
Now, I know it will work eventually. I mean, I know it from experience. Because it always does. In time. After I've lost another head of hair.
Eventually, I'll get it. Eventually, I'll have an actual story here...
Too bad at this point, when every word I write is spelled c-r-a-p, "eventually" seems a long, long way away.
This book doesn't feel as if it's ever going to work. My hero has no...identity. I can't decide who the guy is, you know? One minute he's in executive protection (meaning a bodyguard) and the next, he's a land developer.
And the murderer? Whodunnit? Really. I'm the author, and I need to know. I've got a heroine--a nice, stable woman with a meaningful job teaching primary grades. And I've got a victim--her identical twin.
But the rest?
Let me spell it for you...
C-R-A-P.
I'm sure tomorrow will be better. I'm also sure that after all these books I've written, this should be easier. Shouldn't it?
But it's not. What's up with that? Do other people's jobs get easier? Or is it the nature of work well done that you get there by hacking your way through the jungle of your own mind.
That's me today. Hacking my way through my own personal jungle, tearing out my hair and wondering whatever possessed me to imagine I could write books for a living....









