I’m a writer. I have been most of my life, at least since I learned such a creature existed. That identification has been both a burden as I struggled to write, and a joy as I put substance to imagined lives.

The problem is I’ve found a lot of distractions along the way. Almost four books finished, many more half way, and I’m still unpublished.

Am I afraid to succeed? Maybe, but I’ve come to see that my fear of failure runs deeper still.

Brenda Ueland wrote, “I learned that you should feel when writing, not like Lord Byron on a mountain top, but like child stringing beads in kindergarten – happy, absorbed and quietly putting one bead on after another.”

One bead–one word, one page, one chapter after another. Eventually a book is born.

It’s a strong image. And so, in this new home, I have re-named my fledgling blog “Stringing Beads.” A constant reminder to me of how to write. Word by word, bead by bead.

So, it’s back to the book.

Deb