Wow! Publishing can take a toll on your writing career. I need to pick up my story where it left off and allow it to grow like I know it can. Instead, of course, I pursue the business aspects of writing - especially publishing - and let all that creativity die on the brain stem.

The Cold Bite of Autumn aspires to be my manifesto work that grows from my innermost mind into the most ultimate of writing complexities - a novel. At this moment the story is nothing more that a cheap trinket in a curio shop.

The power needed to complete the writing cycle of nothing, creation, refinement, re-creation and finally nothing overwhelms the writing mind with visions of impossibilities rattling around their cortex...

Writers create from nothing but the space between their ears and the maze within their hearts. Writers understand each other up to a point. We all fight our demons. We all suffer our pathetic excuses. We all nod our heads and even forgive others of their time-management conundrums. Yet we seldom forgive ourselves purely. We do it temporarily, but ultimately we blame ourselves for not pressing forward in a more timely fashion.

These types of things are apt to happen to creative folk. We bounce around in our right brained world never considering how poorly this world melds with the analytical left brain universe. We wander around, staggering buffoons for the world to see and we have the audacity to ask this same world to read just how inept or imaginatively corrupt we are. Fiction's Footsteps appear to be less than baby steps at this point, but if you've never attempted to write a book, don't come bitchin' to me about dangling participles and incomplete sentences. At least I'm giving it the old
heave-ho!

Until next week...