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Know Jack #218 Let's Pretend

Writers are like mothers with ugly children. We know there are people who don’t like what we have produced, but we do it anyway because the creative process is so much fun.

Of necessity, we are a thick-skinned lot. We have to be because not everyone can lie with a straight face. Working for months or years on a book that gets a quick grimace and a “Bless your heart,” can be discouraging when your genius is so clear you don’t see how anyone can miss it. But that’s the writing life.

Rejection is multiplied when you are a niche writer trying to crowd folks into your tiny little cubicle. Most of those you meet have no interest in the things that charge your batteries. I have a leg up on many of my fellow writers because I was well versed in personal rejection before I ever started writing for readers.

Rejection is part of the business of writing. While it is to be expected, it is never a valid reason for quitting. I write for two people…myself, first of all, and my faithful readers. I can’t speak for others especially who must make living selling their work, but I write what stirs my emotions while holding my breath hoping that it produces the same effect for you the reader.

The whole “we’re all in this together” is a rather hollow and trite bit of propaganda these days and I resent the hell out of it because it steals from the relationship I want to build with readers. Whether we walk into a saloon in a dust blown town like Perdition, chase a Rougarou around a Louisiana bayou, or go wallet shopping, I want us to go together.

I want you to see what I see, feel what I feel, and come away glad for the experience. That’s true writing success. You may be like me plain, drab vanilla in white bowl, but turn me loose inside my head and---dang! The stuff I come up with. There’s an old song that talks about seeing is a big neon sign and making believe it’s Jamaica. Yeah, that’s what writing/reading does if you let it.

So, for now, I’m off to Ed Landry’s next stop---Oklahoma. I see blood on the moon, don’t you?

Maranatha.


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