The Secret Life of a Writer

Published on by Francesca Quarto

The cue at the bottom of this blog page, warns me that "this section cannot remain empty", as if I would attempt to post a blog with only a title and no more substance than a patch of fog below it.

I have to fight my way through the unsubstantial, but dense fog, that creeps through my head on occasion, proving beyond a doubt I can lose my way as a writer.

Wanting to write Urban Fantasy was not a conscious choice,made casually over a bowl of Cheerios one morning.  I didn't reflect on the commitment to the creative process needed to achieve even a modicum of good writing.

There was no mental epiphany, when I knew in my every fiber, that I would be an author of a book, let alone a series.

You might recall from your younger days of watching "Sesame Street" how Kermit the frog always bemoaned the fact that "it wasn't easy to be green".  To my mind, being a writer is as close as one ever gets to being green!  

A solitary, pensive figure, perched on a lily pad in the midst of a pond filled with fabulous writers, skillful practitioners of the art of telling a beautifully woven tale. And then...there's you!

The challenge to one who would dare enter the pond, making even small ripples of acknowledgement along the way, is not to stand out, but to stand up to the slings and arrows that might fly your way.  Hardening one's ego with a good coating of humility can go just so far, but in the final analysis, you must stand firm and say, "I wrote it!  I own it!" 

I looked at some poetry I had written in the throes of my angst-ridden youth, and nearly gagged on the purple prose that oozed from between the lines.  What started out as a brief excursion down memory lane, ended up being a crisis of confidence.  If I could write that kind of crap then, how was I doing now?

After several minutes of self-examination I decided then and there that what I wrote was the inner me reaching out from some secret place in my being; a place where flowers can shoot darts at you if you stop to smell the roses and werewolves are always hungry for seconds.  

As for my poetry, I found some that was actually appealing to my critical ear, so I may dust it off and stash it in that secret place where my heart beats with the joy of finding the just the right word! 

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