Have a question? Agree, disagree,
with me? Leave me your opinion.
In high school, an English teacher
noticed my flair for word creations.
"You have a way with words."
"Uh huh." I nodded, didn't mean
much to me.
.
I continued my education, and
began to appreciate my writing
ability.
Still, I pushed away the idea of
taking it seriously.
The degree and I found a job,
planned to retire from it.
The unthinkable happened. I was,
unjustly, fired.
Devastated covered only one of
the emotions I felt.
"Why?" you asked
My former manager and
co-workers weren't happy
with taking away my
livelihood.
They took it to the street.
My neighbors began being
rude, to put it lightly. Now,
I spoke to them, but they
weren't friends.
Strangers bumped into me
as they passed on the
street.
I was forced to call the
Philadelphia Police.
They were the first on
the scene to take me
seriously. They came
to my aid. I was a person
with no money, and no
connections. Yet, they
found my complaint had
substance.
The tears dried up.
I turned to writing a detailed
account of what happened at
my former job, but fictionalized
it.
Besides, I was unable to
get a job. I sent out over
one-hundred resumes.
All kinds of doubts
invaded my thoughts
about my novel.
Can I do it? Would anyone
buy it? Publisher? Maybe,
an agent?
I shoved those writing-stoppers
away.
I wrote the novel, not sure where
to go with it.
I found someone to critique it, but
her rates were too expensive.
"I'm cheap compared to others."
She assured.
"It's just that my funds are limited.
My elderly mother shares her food
with me."
"Good luck."
I trashed paragraphs, and improved
the plot. From time to time, peppered
it with more suspense.
I crossed paths with an agent, sent
him the manuscript. He returned it
with a scribbled note that read,
"Work on it."
I did. A telephone call or two from
him showed me my book was
not on his submit to a publisher
list. I moved on.
Next, I enrolled in a writing, mail-
order, course. The instructor
had the option of recommending
a student's work for publication
with the school.
Of course, my manuscript failed
to get picked.
I tried a second attempt at taking
the course, and my manuscript
was tossed back into my hands.
It was time to read on my own.
The goal was to get a better
understanding of plot, suspense,
and breaking into the writing
world.
Surprisingly, no one explained
the reason(s) my manuscript
wasn't acceptable.
So, it was up to me.
When I critique someone's work,
I explain my comments. I tell
people why their work will be
rejected. It's the humane thing
to do.
After studying on my own, I
managed to pin-point, correct,
errors.
Meanwhile, my search for a
publisher went on.
My efforts paid-off.
Life gave me the writing idea,
and I had the courage to use
it.
My novel, Grave Street House, was
published.
At any given moment, life will
throw dirt at me, you. I'll write
about it. What will you do?
In closing, life gives us many writing
ideas. Some are funny, and easily
written about. Others take effort to
write about.
*******************************************
An excerpt from my novel, Grave Street
House.
"Amanda, few of us are goin' to the club.
Come with?"
"No, I have to get home, because my
mother wasn't..."
"Not gonna last long 'round here with
that attitude."
"I'll go another time."
"Has to be now."
"Why didn't you let me know before the
last minute?"
"That's why they say stuck-up using ya're
name." She rolled her eyes.
The trust I had for them added up to
zero. The thought of going out with them made
me uneasy. A trick? The way they talked
openly, loud in the work area. It showed they
were capable of doing anything. I preferred
not to be in their company.
On the other hand, if I joined them at the
club, how bad could it be with others around?
Plus, if I go now, never again.
"All right, I'll go out with you one time."
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