More Than a Book


Mississippi River

The brain is still writing. I mean, like right now. The life in the story is more tangible than the present — a  movie that keeps playing while I sleep, flashing across a screen of vivid dreams.


I’ve made up names for real people, my attempt at hiding identities. I’ve become so used to calling people by their pseudo names, that I have to pause in conversation to remember what their real names are. So sis, if I call you Sarah, just go with it.


I’ll be glad to finish my current edit and take five days off before I return with a fresher brain for another go round. I’ve cut about a hundred and fifty pages from my original draft but need to slice and dice a hundred more. This is the problem with working on a story for too many years — it grows like a fungus.


It feels as if I’m slaying a dragon, which isn’t good because I like dragons. But the writing and editing has that feeling of a life being tested, of showing what I’m made of — the good and the bad.

Something more than a book is being worked on here…



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