Image courtesy of Stockvault.
I haven’t been writing my novel as much recently. Things picked up for a brief bit, and then other projects got in the way. When I got back to it, I realized that I was in an important part of the story I was working on. There’s a lot of emotion involved.
The whole thing is loosely based on my journey out of faith. My protagonist is my faith. He’s trying to rescue the qualities of me that I had to sacrifice in order to maintain it. Where I’m at is the first quality, compassion. Although I have compassion for other people, I lost my compassion for myself.
In a way, I need to get this right because I need to get right with myself. Every part of me is in this work. The more I write, the more of myself goes into it.
There’s a reason why it’s horror. My destination is a dark place, enthralled to a dark entity that everyone else swears is good and holy and just and the most wonderful thing ever. It is my hope that people will read it and think.
But they won’t read it if I don’t write and publish it. The work is worth it, but it’s taking more time than I want. All the while, I’m forgetting to be gentle with myself.
Amusing Nonsense 