I'm not a full-fledged author. Okay - more specifically - I'm not a published novelist. I managed to write one book so far. Still editing and submitting with hopes of capturing someone's attention but still unpublished thus far. So now the big task is can I do it again?

They say everyone has a novel in them, but how about two? Or ten? More?

To find out I let my muse run rampant for a while. Had an idea that seemd unique, even a little twisted. I explored the possiblities and wrote a novella of text to prepare for it. But still no novel. See, I've got this nagging little vamp that tells me how pathetic my idea is. It flitters around, just outside my peripherial and tells me cheap lies I buy into. It sucks.

Allowing yourself to fall into the story without worry or fear should be the path but I can't seem to capture that essence most days. It becomes more of a challange to shut the troll up and actually write then ever before. Maybe this is why Hemingway was a rampant alcoholic.

Today's blog is merely a vent; a distraction from what I should be doing, and that is writing that second book. Number one may never see the light of day. Two's future is as uncertain but I'll never know until I get off my ass and write.

Here I go!