I think of my inner world like a child holding a box of their most precious treasures and when they show it to someone the person laughs and teases that that they aren’t treasures, they are worthless knickknacks and stones. What hurts isn’t being told that they are worthless, what hurts is that something so wonderful could not be shared. What doesn’t do any good is locking the box up and showing no one ever again. You have to learn to show someone else and keep doing it until you find someone who appreciates it just as you do.

So I’m working on what feels like a novel, perhaps of slightly shorter than what would be considered a big book, but not so short as to not fall into the novel category. It also seems to want to be a young adult book, through it wasn’t one when it was still rattling around in the cobwebs of my lack-of-brain.

That it exists in its unfinished form means that it isn’t fictional. However it hasn’t gelled sufficiently that I have more than a vague sense where the hell it is going. This frustrates me, and makes me wonder if it exists anywhere other than the vague shimmering of characters and ideas. Not that I have much experience to go on here; maybe this is how The Process always feels.

I do manage to write between a few hundred and a thousand words a day, but it just isn’t going anywhere. My silly characters are muttering to themselves and aren’t getting together like I’d planned. The BIG HONKING event that starts things off doesn’t want to happen.

Anyway, that’s where I am and I’ll keep you informed about where I go from here. This ramble brought to you by Debbie, blog secretary extraordinaire.