It lives inside my head

I have a story that has been brewing for a decade. I started writing it immediately after my divorce (2006), and ignored it for about eight years afterward. I think it’s time to drag it back out and start writing again; this story needs to be told.

It scares me to think that I want to write a book. I know that if something scares me, it probably means I really really need to do it … so, I am.

I’ve started my collection of history notes, I’m developing a plot line in my head as I see the historical information behind my choices, and I’m WRITING in a notebook and keeping a bibliography.

I’m writing.

I have a semi-solid idea that everything is going to base off of, but am letting it develop as I work … it’s a fun process.

I enjoy doing research. I enjoy history. I enjoy writing about historical research and adding humans and real people to the history. I’m nerdily excited by this work I’m doing. It’s good to feel passionate about something again.

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I’ve written three novellas before … never edited or shared them, but I’ve written them. I can do it again, right? Of course.

I’m writing a book.

I’m writing a book. Whoa.

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