Last Wednesday morning, high on chocolate-raspberry coffee and too many sugary macaroons, I made my way to the first fall session of Tinderbox — 8 weekly workshops facilitated by Kimberly Brock. Of course I’d entered the wrong address into my GPS and ended up a few miles away, but, as per my usual M.O., I didn't panic or freak the hell out. I quickly entered the correct address and reached Broadwell Cottage on time. When I walked into the sun-dappled meeting room, a sense of serenity and acceptance washed over me. I was home, and these were my people.
My journey to Broadwell Cottage for the spring session wasn’t so bright and breezy. You see, driving scares the bejesus out of me. My overactive brain thinks I’ll lose control of my car, which will cause it to flip, and I’ll die from the resulting injuries. Morbid, I know.
Four years ago, after my family and I moved from Ireland to Atlanta, I got my first ever driver’s license at the age of 37. Over the following months, I gained some confidence on the roads, but not nearly enough to drive outside of a two-mile radius. For three years, there was no reason why I needed to venture outside of my safety circle. I was a stay-at-home mom who wrote when time allowed. I had my family, my friends, a Kroger, a Super Target, and three Starbucks nearby. All of my needs were met, weren’t they?
Nope. In May 2014, I took the route into self-publishing. A thrilling ride if ever there was one. By Christmas, I was burnt out. Self-doubt wrapped its spindly hands around my creative cup and filled it with loathing. Idiot. You think you’re a writer? Loser. You had to self-publish because no one else wanted you. Phony. You’re so ashamed of your writing; you hide behind a pen name.
Was I really all of those things? My writing friends, who, at the time, were mostly online, would say no. But my increasing uncertainty urged me to find real-life people who also fought in the self-doubt trenches. People who would understand what it’s like to have a brain wired to create and who might know how to conquer crippling fear. But here’s the thing, I run from new people and unknown environments like Wile E. Coyote’s snapping at my tail with metal teeth.
Curious about writing workshops and groups in my zip code, I asked my all-knowing friend Google to find some. A few clicks later, I found Kimberly’s blog. Her post What We Wish For touched me deeply. Here was a lady who spoke my language. The Tinderbox workshops sounded like the safe, creative space I needed. Hallelujah, right? Not so fast. A map search showed me the workshops would take place twenty minutes away from my house. It might as well have been in New York. No way no how could I drive there. I’d need an oxygen tank just to drive past Kroger—a whole 1.7 miles away.
But every few days, I’d browse through the Tinderbox website and then do a virtual drive of the route. I even had my husband drive us there so I could see how busy the roads were. But no matter how easy it seemed, I just couldn’t do it. After a particularly frustrating day where writing words was akin to wrestling adult alligators, I got a rush of the “screw its” and booked the workshop. No matter what it took, I was going.
The night before, I didn’t sleep.
The morning of, I didn’t eat.
I programmed the GPS and set out an hour earlier than needed. Do you think I got lost? Yup. Forty minutes into my drive, I pulled into a gas station in God-knows-where Atlanta. My hands shook so much that a kind trucker, who in my memory looks like Santa Claus, had to pump my gas. Tears filled my eyes, and I wanted to go home. But I stopped myself. If I didn’t make it to Broadwell Cottage, I would never get over my fear of driving, and I would forever hide behind my laptop screen afraid to reveal my true creative self to others.
Eventually, after several more wrong turns and many crumpled tear-filled tissues, I made it. I sat in my car relieved I was there, but terrified about walking through the doors. Again, self-doubt delighted in whispering all of the things I couldn’t do. There was no point going in because I wasn’t a writer. I was a wannabe. The voice of doom and gloom was right. Giving in, I turned the ignition. But then anger kicked my backside and pretty much kicked me out of the car.
I shuffled into the meeting room and sat by the door in case I needed a quick escape. I didn’t. On a beautiful Wednesday morning at the beginning of spring, I met five ladies who welcomed me with open arms and listened to my special kind of cray-cray without judgment. Over the following eight weeks, we cried, we created, we celebrated each other’s work, and we chatted like old friends. Self-doubt and the fear of driving will always be there, it’s who I am, but because I took a chance and went way out of my comfort zone, I reclaimed my creative joy.
My first drive to Tinderbox is very much like the creative journey many of us take. Moving towards your goals will be scary, at times petrifying, and several wrong turns may take you out of the way, but if you persevere, you’ll get there and what’s waiting at the other end will be worth every bump in the road.
As we move through these last cold days of winter and toward the warmth of Spring, I am always aware of another quality of the coming season - uncertainty. There's so much change involved in the month of March. The weather can swing to extremes, and I find that so do the feelings about coming out of a quiet kind of winter hibernation and back into a light-filled, expectancy. There's something fragile about this time of year. Something hopeful. Something vulnerable.
Today, a dear friend posted a link to this blog, Rebelle Society: creatively maladjusted, on my Facebook feed. I was so moved by it, I wanted to share it here. I hope you'll enjoy the perspective of contributor, Deborah Quibell, MPH, PhD (candidate) Senior Pranic Healing Practitioner and Instructor PhD candidate in Depth/Jungian Psychology, and take these words along with you today to ponder and maybe inspire your personal transition.
You can click here, or on the image below, to be taken directly to the blog, "To All Beautiful Beings w
ith a Swollen Heart."
Take care, sweet, swollen hearts!
When Tinderbox Writers Workshop began last year, I posted this blog. We are almost three sessions into our second series and I thought I'd share it again, as a testimony and an intention and an expression of gratitude for all the good that can rise from the ashes of our lives.
And most of all, as an invitation.
There's a place for you in our circle.
WHAT WE WISH FOR
My life broke.That’s the best way I know to explain the past nine months. I’d been going ninety to nothing, publishing my first novel, loving my family hard, raising three kids, each in a different school, managing aging parents, aging pets, peanut allergies and a husband whose work kept him out of town for a good portion of every week. And I was managing. I was moving. I was shaking. I was paying attention. I was doing everything right. And then…I woke up one day and the people in my life started dropping like flies.
In truth, no one actually died, but every person who was significant went into their own personal crisis and I was the last (wo)man standing. I’d been a celebrated teacher, an award winning author, a beloved wife and mother and daughter – that didn’t stop the breaking. It was more than I could manage. And it was nothing I could mend. As the ones I loved struggled, I felt my foundations tremble. My hands were completely tied, my heart was broken, and I’d never been so alone. So here’s what I did: I went into my closet and shut the door.
The thing is, I love my closet. It is my nest. It is my metaphorical womb. It is my most favorite place. And because I have my closet, all my life I’ve been a person who persists. I’ve been a survivor. I’ve been the person who is grounded. I’ve been able to turn inward and find what I need because I lived a rich, creative, thoughtful, faith-filled life. I believe in miracles. I believe in magic. I like to act like I’m all rational and worldly, but truthfully I am a die-hard optimist in a pessimist’s clothing. But that day in January when I went into my closet and I shut my eyes and went to gather my strength and belief in good, good things, a terrible thing happened.
I was empty. Depleted. Exhausted. Where I’d always been able to come out of that closet refreshed, with a plan, ready to take on what came next, suddenly I couldn’t even bring myself to open the door. And I kept thinking the same things over and over. Mostly, I’d catch myself thinking one thing, an unfinished thought: I wish…I wish…I wish…
And when I turned to my work, the thing I thought would get me out of my mess – writing – I discovered every creative person’s nightmare. I was blocked to the bone.
What happened to me? Life broke. And the pieces created a great big dam.
For the past few months I’ve been floundering and questioning. I’ve been wandering around, blinking like a mole, picking up pieces and tucking them into my pockets. I’ve been doing a lot of sleeping because it’s hard to get out of bed. I’ve been eating lots of carbs and reading lots of books and taking care of my house and not answering the phone at all. I’ve been fighting cynicism. I’ve been afraid. Of so many things. Of having nothing special to offer the world. Of being ordinary. Of days passing and watching them go by without being inspired…or inspiring someone else.
Friends and family have watched me, uneasy. It’s scary for them, too, I think. They’ve never seen me…well…stop. I mean really, seriously STOP. But I did. And something new started to happen. I realized this: creativity – the source that has always been the soul-restoring energy available to me in that nest-closet of mine – is like any other thing on this earth that FLOWS. It needs a clear path.
If I wanted to continue to survive – and especially to come back from trauma - it was going to be up to me to learn how to take care of my creativity. And that started with taking care of myself. I started by taking care of myself in all the extravagant, thoughtful ways I wished to be cared for. (Which also gave me the renewed strength to care for those around me.) I worked in ways that felt good instead of exhausting, clearing a path for my creativity. (I learned to say no to a lot of things, too. I’ve never had a problem saying no. But I did have a problem saying yes to the wrong things.) And then I allowed myself to enjoy all the unexpected ways that recovering my creativity brought well-being and purpose and joy back into my life.
Sound like I’ve gone all Oprah? Well. Not really. Half the time I’m still guessing. I don’t live in Chicago or know everything. I know very little, actually. And I like it that way. I like that I’m learning from so many women who are also on this path. So when I started looking around at the women in my life, the girls I see at the grocery store or the school meetings, ladies who sit beside me at church or on airplanes, or book clubs, I started to notice so many of them are whispering things to me.
I’m lost. I’m burnt out. I don’t even have time. I don’t even remember myself. And…I wish. LOTS of I wish.
Tinderbox Writers Workshop came out of I WISH.
I’m calling it a writers workshop, but really it’s a creativity workshop. I believe stories are the surest path to our source - our hearts. Stories teach us how to speak our truth. Stories change everything. Stories teach us about our wishes. Stories are the home of every creative effort, no matter the form.
I’m a believer that if you want something in life, you should create it. And then you should share it. I wished I could create the life I wanted each day. I wished I could create a space for women who are blocked, who are stuck, who are silenced or depleted or just searching for a safe place to discover or recover or express their gifts. I wished for a space for women to share and explore and CREATE and celebrate their stories and voices. I wished to nurture my own soul and the souls of sisters and daughters. I wished for a sanctuary where women can learn to live fully, joyously, passionately – lives lived from our creative core.
I hope you’ll join me.
Discover your story. Recover your voice. What do you wish?
Author Rona Simmons has done something that has set the bar impossibly high for me. She wrote a blog and told the world about the little stuff I try to do as I come to the page every day. And whether she knows it or not, she’s encouraged me with this piece. Rona poked me with a stick and whispered to keep at it. And I hope what she’s written will be an encouragement to a TON of other, better, more prolific or struggling or beginning writers out there. Those who pray for their publishing contracts to come through or those who go without recognition. Those who blog and those who journal. Those who want to see their words in print and those who write in secret to heal a broken heart. For all of us, for the million things we do to help along a friend or a sister or a mama who is trying to find the way to tell her stories.
What Rona says loud and clear in this blog (not just in her post about me but all the women she writes about), is this:
What you’re doing, it matters.
(If you want to read her post, click here for the link.)
****AND, I'd like to bring some attention to a post she ran a few weeks before this one, featuring the lovely and brilliant Soniah Kamal! Click here to read that piece - A Suitable Woman.****
Meeting Rona has been one of the gifts of my writing this year. I hope you’ll all rush out and pick up a couple of copies of her books. Drop by her website and see what she’s up to. She’s inspiring!
To make it easy, here are her links:
book trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wQBxj_gdb7w
Give the gift of Creativity! Registration is OPEN for the Tinderbox Writers Workshop Winter Sessions and gift certificates are available! Seats are filling up – sessions begin the second week of January!! Hope you’ll join us!
Tinderbox Writers Workshop Winter Session Registration
Please PRE-REGISTER below for Winter Session. Seats are filling up.
Are you secretly filling journals with observations, thoughts or poetry? Are you wishing you knew how to start your own blog? Maybe you want to record your family stories? Have you got a journalist’s eye for a good story? Is there a novel inside you, just waiting to be written?
OR maybe your creative gifts lie in painting, gardening, pottery or photography? Or a thousand other fantastic and unique ways we find our voices, express ourselves?
Tinderbox Writers Workshop is designed to uncover your desires, your truths and your purpose by introducing you to the creative capacity you carry within. Over the course of 8 weeks through 2-hour weekly sessions, you’ll learn to nurture the creative self.
Award winning author Kimberly Brock’s reputation as a teacher is characterized by her focus on getting the writer out of his or her own way, creating an environment of awareness and support. Writers and artisans of all kinds are encouraged to come out of hiding, to take calculated risks, and to embrace the habits of a satisfying, thriving creative life we are meant to enjoy.
Along with Tips and Tools to Improve Your Creative Expression
You’ll Learn the Habits of Creative Well-Being:
In our 2-hour sessions, you’ll will be challenged to engage in the habits of living from your Creative Core (nurturing your creative well-being). You’ll also learn to tell your story by using the tools of fiction-writing (point-of-view, plot, characterizing detail, tone, etc.). Workshop participants will consider examples of creative works through the lens of mindfulness to learn to take risks, tell truths and make connections. Through fun writing prompts and creative exercises, you’ll put these techniques to use in your own original work. In-class critiques as well as feedback from the instructor will help you further develop creative potential. The eight weeks ends with a party! You’ll have the chance to share your work, surrounded by the support of the Tinderbox community, through open-to-the-public readings & opportunities to showcase artwork.
Today's guest post is by Tinderbox Society member, Georgia Lee. After our first meeting this week of the Fall workshop series, she offered to share a sublime blog, which is also posted on her own site, Georgia Lee Says. I hope you'll be inspired!
The full moon pulls me outside and I rise or fall, like the obedient tide. Last night, early October, the Hunters or Harvest - each full moon has a name, you know. I don't feel like looking it up, but I'm going with Hunters. It suits my current mood. And Harvest Moon gets too much attention.
I feel sorry for the other moons, unsung by, uh - Neil Young? - prolific Southern Manhater? I hope Neil Young will remember, a southern woman don't need him around, anyhow. If only I'd stuck with my own kind, flawed though they all are, I might not be out on wet grass after midnight, alone. Alone!! With vampire mosquitoes, out for a last taste of blood before we all sink into our winters' underworld.
My friends, I am a hopeless DRAMATIC. My backyard - The Fountain Theater, is an Al Fresco cross between the Globe and the Kit-Kat Club. In its heyday: Drunken Pagan Players; Shakespeare's Bastards; 500 Megahertz Revue and Versailles A'flame drew raving reviews, from teenage vagrants, neighborhood vigilantes and the Dekalb County Police. As founder, I directed, produced and starred in most.
The 2014 Summer Season never made pre-production. Shut down, as death, unemployment, breakdowns, assaults and stalkers plagued the theater, its owners and backers.
Last night, through a rotting patio door, I entered the sad, neglected ruins. Is anything more ominous than a darkened theater? Three rows of burnt out stage lights sagged the stage, where the Italianate eponymous Fountain is a cesspool of disease-carrying vermin. Virginia Creeper and dead mimosas sling long arms over ghosts in empty seats. A breeze carries a whisper of dialogue. Smoke of dry ice slithers through weeds. Sweet, decayed gardenias swill in spilled beer.
Into this wreckage, with lavender candle, three quartz crystals and an I-Pad, I stake my gray yoga mat in the ground. Brian Eno's "Music for Airports" is near silent, drowned by the thriving cicada/cricket stereo.
For thirty minutes, I sit. Breathe in. Breathe out. Only breath. It doesn't hold me, my own breath.
I hear my father's automated coma breath, 120 hours of it as I hold the powerful pulse steadfast - on and on, the wrist. I see my mother two years ago. The last scene calls for grace under pressure - Hemingway, Gary Cooper. Even this will not touch me, within me. She rises above.
These two stars dazzle my life.Comedians. Tragedians. Quick chameleons, as all actors must be.
But...this? Are they capable of portraying the the awe, the grandeur of death? Am I, front row - suspending belief, brought to tears, or not, staying until the curtain drops? They are. I am It's over. The End.
I wait. For them to bound back out onto the stage, take several energetic, role-busting bows, applaud me, the audience, and then, with a jaunty wave, exit. Thank you, goodnight everybody!
I wait, with no script. Out for a drink, discuss the end? No. This was one night only, never repeated never duplicated never forgotten.
Tomorrow tomorrow and tomorrow. Last night. The constant moon is my Mother. She reflects shape and light, forming a mosaic of my broken pieces. Full center stage, or hidden behind scenes, in clouds, over horizons.
Dad is the stars - mystery of dreaming constellations, never judging, receiving all that is undiscovered, our surprising universe.
Lured last night into the dead Fountain Theater, I expected nothing but 30 minutes of the full Hunters Moon. I already knew the setting, the characters and the story.
I did not know the message that came behind it. I did not predict the tears. I do not pretend to understand it now. Am I bringing my own bias to it? Probably. It doesn't matter. The dead, once on this stage with us, are with us still. The sheer curtain is opaque. Life and death are equal and both are illusions, stories - a dream within a dream within a dream. There is no Third Wall.
*Save the date: The all-new, fully-renovated, 2015 Fountain Theater, will kick off its Summer 2015 Season Saturday, June 20 with a Summer Solstice Celebrations. Calling all playwrights, actors, musicians, costume and set designers, creatives, rapscallions, art and even sports enthusiasts. Step into the light - all are welcome. Please RSVP. A splendid time is guaranteed for all.
DATE: June 20, 2015 EVENT: Summer Solstice Celebration WHERE: The Fountain Theater, Decatur, GA TIME: 8 p.m. until...(we don't follow Time's Arrow) Rain or Shine.
The Show Must Go On.
Georgia Lee directs Writing Center – former Bureau Chief WWD, contributor to every publication in the known world, yoga guru, psychic, Beatlemaniac, milkshake addict.
I met guest blogger and Tinderbox Society member, Jodi Burrus, a few years ago when a friend and I drove to Birmingham, Alabama to meet a mutual friend and fellow author, humorist Robin O'Bryant. We sat around a table for dinner and laughed ourselves silly, talking about our families, our writing and everything in between. I left that dinner wishing those women lived closer to me. I felt recharged. I felt my energy and confidence return. It might have been the wine or the artichoke dip, but I think there's something about sharing our stories that feeds our souls. I wanted Jodi to share her story here with you so maybe some of that magic could be recaptured and spread over your day today.
If you've ever struggled to make time for yourself, time to be still and quiet in a crazy busy life, time to listen for your own voice in all the hubbub...this one's for you!
Jodi's blog speaks to the power of friendship in our lives to nourish our creativity. Find her at thedrunch.com.
"When you meet a friend for Drunch, you know you’re going to kick back, unwind and say what you want to say. Whether it’s Marriage and Family or Nips and Tucks, no topic is off limits. Stop by The Drunch to catch up on what’s being said around the table today."
Jodi's doing a great giveaway, too, so leave a comment for her. Your going to really connect to this post and want to chat about it. Share your thoughts and yourself here and you'll win, either way!
by Jodi Burrus
Writing…until you’re a published author, people will refer to this as your “hobby,” not realizing It means so much more than the word “hobby” implies. It's not a pair of fuzzy slippers knitted at Christmas.
Still...I've not published a full-length novel, and my writing isn't a source of income. Not a "real" job. So where does writing fit in my crazy, mixed-up life? It doesn't...there's just no room.
I should explain...I'm a mom. Not just once, but four times over. Boys -- ages 9, 8, 8, and 8. That's as real as it gets.
I juggle the schedules of all six members of our family. I cook a healthy dinner (most of the time), and pack lunches, and do laundry, and remember karate outfits, and clean up dog hair, and mop the floors (sometimes). We go to school. We go to church. Sure, it looks like multi-tasking, but my focus is ALL on raising 4 boys and maintaining a somewhat sanitary/sane/livable home environment. All my eggs are in one basket. There is no TIME for writing.
But I do it anyway.
I can't help but think of my writing as the bloodletting treatments of old, where the tumultuous humors were drained away in order to leave their host healthy and sound. Sure it's junk science, but as a metaphor for writing -- it's good medicine.
Ernest Hemingway said, “There is nothing to writing. You just sit down at a typewriter and bleed." For me, the words build day after day, night after night, until the pressure demands an outlet. I struggle with allotting a set time every day to write. Sometimes it just doesn't work out. Kids get sick. I get exhausted. Life happens. So I've given myself permission to play hooky.
Sometimes, the laundry sours in the washer. Dinner becomes takeout, and guess what? You guys need to buy lunch at school tomorrow because I didn't make it to the grocery store today. And you know what? Life goes on. There may be some rumbles from the peanut gallery, but the earth continues to spin.
So the words flow...in fits and starts. Disjointed scenes, disrupted voices. Pages I want to burn, and phrases I wish the world could see. Is it a pointless exercise? I don't think so. I'm simply being who I'm supposed to be. Will I publish a full-length novel someday? I hope so. But if it never happens, I'll still be here...my pen dripping words onto the page.
Need a little encouragement to get your own creative juices flowing? How about a copy of the anthology “Winter Wonders” — a collection of short stories that includes Jodi's very first published YA Fiction, “The Fat Files.” Leave a comment here or on her blog at www.thedrunch.com Or send a tweet to @thedrunch saying, “Count me in!” for a chance to win.
What is this Tinderbox Society all about?
JOURNEYS + TIPS
It's a community blog featuring some of the women I've met along the way - and all of the women I am continuing to meet - who are JUST LIKE YOU!
They're moms, grandmothers, teachers, accountants, small business owners, artisans and...
women who've found themselves burnt out or shut up at some point in their lives and they're sharing their journeys and tips about
finding their voice
expressing their passions
and writing their way back to their creative core.
These are their stories. These are their voices. They're daring. Taking risks. Expressing everything inside and inspiring everyone around them.
They're gonna blow your hair back.
Tinderbox Society's FIRST GUEST BLOGGER is Susan Sands.
Susan writes romantic women's fiction and blogs at Sweet Home Alpharetta. I met Susan at an event for another author at Foxtale Book Shoppe (one of my favorite places on earth) and we hit it off talking about kids and writing and writing and kids and how are you finding time to write?? Her post today makes me take a deep breath and find gratitude for one of the toughest lessons for anyone with a plan...waiting. I'm not a very pleasant person when I'm waiting. I'm going to try to be more like Susan!
If Susan's story rings a bell for you, leave a comment for her. Welcome her. Cheer her on!
It's what Tinderbox is all about. Celebrating the truth inside each of us and creating something unique and perfectly flawed.
Tell it, Susan!
My name is Susan Sands, and I’m a failure. Well, not exactly a failure. I’m just not a published author of a full-length novel after seven long years of trying unsuccessfully the old-fashioned way. Seven years ago there wasn’t a new-fashioned way to speak of. So much has evolved in the industry since I began this journey that I’m not even certain what I want anymore from this dream of mine.
Having someone tell me I was good enough, I mean, someone who knew what he or she was talking about was my first goal. My name in print on the cover of a book, by a real publisher, was my true objective starting out. Money? Yeah, I thought I’d get some of that too.
How it all started:
I woke up at forty years old and decided that I wanted to write. Didn’t we all at some point? I bought my first laptop, craft books on fiction writing at my local Barnes and Noble, and then I figured I should attend a first novel writer’s conference way out in California, having no idea how much opportunity to learn I had so close to home. But as fate and luck would have it, there were real live agents in California and one of them wanted my book when it was finished!
She suggested I first join my local chapter of RWA, Georgia Romance Writers, and the national chapter as well. I think I’d gotten online and done that within the first fifteen minutes of meeting her.
I was fifteen thousand words in on my first Southern romantic women’s fiction novel. But having this agent fervently waiting for my book (ha!) spurred me to write like the wind. I finished the book and had it professionally edited. I printed out the three hundred plus pages and sent it to Cali. And waited. Don’t hate me, but that well-respected agent offered me representation on my first submission. I believed I had a gift, y’all!
After some revisions, she shopped my novel through New York City. I waited. No dice. Looking back, I realize now how truly unworthy of publication that first book was. Why did she offer representation? I believe she saw something in me that she thought would eventually bear fruit. But not yet.
I wasn’t mature enough as a writer; my work wasn’t ready, which was a terrible thing. Fact: Sending out unfit material hurts your good name. If you’ve tried to get an agent lately, you realize how hard that can be. I had a tough decision to make. Keeping an agent who wasn’t a good fit vs. taking time to grow and develop my craft, and when I was ready, try and find an agent who was a better fit. It was a tough breakup on my part.
When in the thick of it, we never think we’re not good enough. That bird in hand is very hard to let go. I wrote new books. I won a few contests. I found a new agent. That book didn’t sell either. Again.
Failure. The burning desire and confidence that I could succeed dimmed. The first goal was achieved. Someone did tell me I was good enough. They even offered representation, twice.
There are those who tell us that selling a book is a combination of good writing and storytelling, who you know, hitting the right editor at the right time with the right project, etc. I truly believe it’s mostly fitting a great story with an editor who falls in love with it and connects with the author’s style. If you can get them to read it initially. I still have a few no-responses, which baffles me.
I’ve continued to write, though not with quite the same thrilling anticipation of submitting the next project to my agent. Thankfully, she still represents me, bless her. I’m wiser now, knowing this time could also bring frustration and defeat, but I do remain hopeful. I don’t thing anyone continues writing with the belief that they will ultimately fail.
The true beauty of this journey has been the people I’ve met along the way, both at conferences and through both GRW and RWA. Only other writers understand the nature of rejection and the growth that we undergo, whether we are novices or multi-published best sellers. And there are always more highs and lows waiting around the next corner.
Best to everyone currently on submission with agents and editors. It’s a tough wait!
tinderbox society blog
Life lived from your Creative Core.