Writing Prompt I: "I saw him. The boy I had to kill" (pt. 2)

The police have my ship. Police was human for law enforcer. Even on my planet outright murder was wrong and that is exactly how they would see my presence on their planet as. They would not see it as a necessary killing to save billions of lives. And I was an “alien.” I had scoffed at the term when I heard it while watching one of the research recordings. I had assumed it was the human word for the specific slim-covered creature that kept eating people on the ship but I had eventually learned it was their word for any being not from their planet. And one of the research recordings said that the humans had a group whose job was to hunt down aliens and dissect them.

Abruptly, my strength drained away. I slouched against the window but knew I had to find a secluded spot to recharge. I stumbled away with my hand against the wall until I found a narrow alley between the buildings. It did not smell the best, but it was the closest place I felt safe enough to power-down the few minutes it would take. I hoped I was not infected with an Earth disease. I was needing to recharge more frequently here than I ever have at home. I could usually go nearly an Earth week on one charge whereas I have had to recharge at least twice a day since I arrived. I hoped it was the atmosphere or maintaining the disguise that was causing it.

I crawled into a small space between two large, smelly, metal containers and rested against the wall. I pulled up my pant leg to get to the chargecell strapped to my ankle. I pulled the retractable cord out and plugged it into the port disguised as a human belly button.

Oodenites are Carbon-based beings, but we rely on artificial energy the way humans rely on food. We have also been able to mechanically modify ourselves to make us more adaptable to the changing atmosphere on Ooden and neighboring planets. My disguise is an artificial case around my body created by my mechanic modifications but it acts and reacts like real human flesh.

Even though I had been in it since I left Ooden, I was still caught off guard when it did something human, like sneezing the other day. Or when I accidently slammed one of my fingers in a door, water immediately started leaking from my eyes. According to one of the research recordings, that was what crying was and “real men don’t cry.” Since I was attempting to pass myself off as a real human male, I tried to staunch the water coming from my eyes. It was surprisingly difficult to do with the pain radiating from my finger.

Once my power was back up to optimum level, I returned to the problem of my missing tracking device. I know I had it in my pocket the last time I powered-down. It might have fallen out of my pocket when I climbed out of the hole I had fallen into this morning in my energy-deprived stupor.

I crawled out from behind the metal boxes and ran right into a pair of legs in blue pants. I looked up to see two males standing over me. Something told me they were not friendly.

“Hello,” I managed to say as I got to my feet. “How can I help of you?”

“What’re you doing back there?” The smaller of the two asked.

“I was resting short. Not a wondrous place to do such a thing but ‘twas convenient and my needs were urgently.”

The males wore twin expressions conveying some emotion I was not familiar with. Their eyes were wide and their brows were furrowed.

“If I can do nothing you to help with, I will be away. Good today.” I bowed as I had seen the Bringer do and started down the alley away from them. I paused when I remembered what some humans had said to their friends when leaving in the research recordings. I turned and held up two fingers tilted to the side. “Later bitches.”

Their eyes widened even more and the larger one’s mouth dropped open. “Freaking alien,” one of them said.

I spun around. “Oh, no. I am not alien. I was born here. On Earth. In… France. Yes. France.” I cringed and ran the rest of the way out of the alley. “Idiot.” I wound my way through the crowd, hoping the two males did not follow me and made my way back to the hole I had recharged in earlier. There were five males walking around it wearing orange items on their heads. I quickly dropped into it and searched around for the small metal case but did not find it. I climbed the ladder and got away before the orange males stopped me.

“Cutpurse.” The word floated through my mind. I had heard it in one of the research recordings. It had been one of the few that did not have colors. Only black and white. I did not like it as much as the ones in color, but the word had been for a male who stole items from people’s pockets. That must have been what happened to my tracker.

I was just about done with this planet. Nothing but rude humans, bad smells, and lost possessions. I simply needed to find the Bringer one more time, kill him, and go home.

I turned a corner too quickly, trapped in my own thoughts, and ran headlong into the larger of the two males who had stopped me in the alley. “Excuse my clumsy ass, sir. Apologies.” I attempted to step around them but he grabbed my arm. The smaller one took my other arm and they dragged me into an alley, this one somehow smellier than the last. They released me and the larger male shoved me against the wall.

The smaller male put his face in mine, his nose nearly touching mine. “Hello, freak. We think you might have something worth something and we want it."

To be continued...

Writing Prompt I: "I saw him. The boy I had to kill" (pt. 1)

A few weeks ago, my writer's group decided to start giving out writing prompts at the end of our meetings as an exercise for us to work on until our next meeting, then we share what we have written. 

It has been a fun activity for everybody and many of us (myself included) are stepping out of our comfort zones. Our poet is writing fantasy, the fantasy writer is writing family drama, and our sci-fi writer is writing comedy.

I want to share some of the short stories I have come up with. The following is the first part of a short sci-fi story I wrote. It is my first foray into sci-fi so, please be kind.

From Alibaba.com
Phasers to stun, please!

Then I saw him. The boy I had to kill. He didn’t look like much, but boy was I wrong.

He was the Bringer. The one prophesized to bring the end of life on Oonden, my home planet and the center of the Kaliege Empire. If Oonden fell, the rest of our galaxy would fall.

He must be stopped.

When my father had been killed, I was transferred to fill his spot in Xans, the Empire’s elite fighters and assassins. They were big shoes to fill and I had hoped, with enough time and training, I would fit into them as if they were made for me.

I was unprepared, to say the least, when my name had been chosen for this mission. I was the youngest member of my unit and the greenest assassin in the Agency, but if I made the kill without too much trouble, it would do amazing things for my career.

The council had objected to someone so inexperienced taking on such an important job, but rules were rules. The one chosen by the Gods was the one sent. It took me almost three months to get to Earth, even in the Agency’s fastest ship. Why the Supreme Being would chose a tiny planet ruled by self-destructive creatures in a distant, sparsely populated galaxy in the gerlac’s anus of the universe to put the Bringer, I will never know.

The boy turned to glance behind him and I quickly ducked behind a vehicle. Then cursed myself for a fool. He had never seen me before and I had been here for nearly a week in disguise. Nobody had questioned it.

But today was the first time I had actually seen him and my nerves got the best of me. I pretended to tie my shoe like I had seen in many of the research chips sent with me to study on the trip. I much enjoyed the ones about beings with superior abilities who destroy cities in their quest to save the cities. Their flawed logic is very humorous to me.

I waited until I was sure the boy was not looking, then stood, only to discover he had disappeared.

“Dammit.” I cursed, taking a bit of pleasure in the harsh human word. I pushed through the crowd, hoping to spot which direction the Bringer had gone but could not see him in the sea of humans that filled the sidewalk. “Dammit!”

“Language, young man!” A tiny, wrinkly, female human scolded me and slapped my arm as she passed me.

I stared after her, shocked and angry that she would dare touch me but also that she had been the first human to address me in the open like that. Apparently, they could talk to strangers, they just chose to pay more attention to their hand-held communication devices than others of their kind. A male about the same age as my disguise bumped into me from behind and barely looked at me as he passed. I wondered if the wires going into his ears were some kind of mind control or if they helped him navigate the maze of streets that I had been hopelessly lost in for the last month. I had seen many people with the same wires but was nowhere nearer to the answer.

It was days like this that I wished I had been able to stay in the research division of the Agency instead of being moved to Xans, then I’d be allowed to investigate what the purpose of the wires was (among other curious things humans did), but instead, I had to hunt down the Bringer again and finally kill him.

I pulled his picture up on my own communication device. He was approximately twenty Earth years old, 1.8 meters tall, black hair, brown skin, green eyes, but otherwise looked like nearly every other human I had encountered. In the picture I had, he was wearing a red object on his head that resembled what Earth females wear on their heads while bathing.

The Agency had no information about him other than the city he resided in and his appearance. Others in Xans had completed missions with less, but I was intelligent enough to know that their own experiences played a large part in their success.

I glanced around again and randomly picked a direction, hoping it was the right one.

It was not. I spent two more days circling the area before I found him again.

He was just exiting a shop filled with brightly colored items and strong smells that mingled until they were unidentifiable and made me sneeze. A reaction that caught me completely by surprise. Apparently my disguise was more human-like than I thought.

The Bringer bowed to the old female who had followed him to the entryway, then started down the street away from me.

Very curious that such a powerful being would show reverence to a female who did not seem to be anything other than a regular human.

I commenced following the Bringer with the beginnings of a plan forming in my mind. I would get close enough to put a tracker on him so I could follow him to a less populated area to kill him. I did not want to kill him in the midst of a crowd. If a human attempted to halt my departure, it would be very bad for us both. My transcarrier could only send one Oodenite at a time. If any more than one or any other species attempted to use it, they would be disintegrated. It could only be used once in this atmosphere and it was my last option if anything bad were to happen.

My plan was to kill the Bringer and use it to get back to my ship, which seemed to have gone missing. It was not in the large grassy area where I had left it a few days ago, but thankfully I did not have to know where my ship was for my transcarrier to work.

I was within feet of him and reached into the pocket of my human pants for the case that held my tracking devices. My hand only felt fabric. I stopped in my tracks, earning myself a shove and a few rude comments from the humans disrupted by my deviation from the norm. I dug deeper into my pocket. Then I checked my other pockets. My communications device and my weapon were where they were supposed to be, but my tracker was gone. I knew it had been in my pocket a few hours ago because I had checked to make sure the power source was holding up to this atmosphere. In a panic, I felt under my shirt to make sure my transcarrier was still on the chain around my neck. I sighed with relief when my hand closed around it.

I looked up and the Bringer was gone again. “Dammit!”

“Language!” A male in dark blue clothing with a metal plate on the left breast and a hat scolded me.

“Apologies.” I waved at him, the action still awkward for me. Only the rudest of Oodenites would make such a gesture but the humans seemed to like it.

I slowly joined the crowd moving in the direction the Bringer had gone. I scanned the shops along the walk, hoping to catch sight of him again.

A picture flashing across a screen in one of the shops made me stop and move closer. It was a picture of my ship. “Dammit,” I whispered as the implant in my head translated the words that scroll across the bottom of the screen.

Diane: What appears to be a space ship has been discovered in Franklin Park. The police are investigating what they are calling either an extravagant prank or an abandoned film prop. They are encouraging anybody with information about it to contact the 800 number on the screen. At this time, it is unclear if or what charges will be pressed. The Captain ended his statement with “we really just want to make sure that the owner gets their obviously expensive item returned to them.”

          The police have my ship.

To be continued...

View From the Cab

For today's blog, I wanted to share something special with you. My dad, Rich, is a railroader and sometimes shares his thoughts and musings from his trips on the train with the rest of the family. I always look forward to his "View from the cab" emails because they are so full of his voice and so true to him that it is like he is sitting next to me telling me about his trip. He might not be a writer by trade, but he knows how to inject his voice into anything he writes, even simple emails.

From my sister's Facebook page and no, you're not getting the link.
My Mom and Dad. Aren't they adorable?!

View from the cab.

We all know that rain and water are one of the necessities of life. It is a given that we in the Midwest experience thunderstorms and occasional super cell storms that produce rain, tornadoes, and hail.

Hail is the topic of this rambling.  

Headed west out of North Platte, the first town we come to is Hershey. Some damage, corn leaves are split and torn up. Next is Sutherland. This is another story. Early this summer a storm came through with wind from the north. Damage was extensive: windows, roofs, siding, cars, trees, etc.  Talked to one fellow, he had over $30,000 damage to his house. From the track and my view, not a lot to see, saw some trees uprooted, limbs down and minor crop damage.  Heading further west we come to Paxton, Roscoe, Ogallala, Brule, Big Springs; crops look good, no damage. Life is good.

Next up is Julesburg. We enter the town from east and here, the track leaves the friendly grade of the South Platte River, takes a right turn, and begins the climb to Cheyenne 150 miles away.  At the end of June, a storm went though and turned pastures to bare ground, fire bush and sunflowers to sticks, waist high corn reduced to stubble, and soy beans fields turns to bare ground. (Katherine you know what this looks like from a couple years ago in Gibbon.) The trees were stripped of leaves and have not yet grown any new leaves back. Cedar trees and pine trees were stripped of needles and are about bare. Some trees appear to be dying, nor sure if any of the damaged ones will recover. All last winter and this spring, we saw pheasants galore, not now. Those too, were likely victims of the hail. There is a small subdivision of acreages in this area; windows are boarded up, roofs to be replace, sheds damages, and of course shelter belts thinned. I was through this area the day after the storm and had not yet heard of the damage. 

Picture from NTV
This was a cornfield of knee- to waist-high corn that was stripped in the hail
storm that hit the town I live in two years ago. It shredded siding, shattered windows,
flattened crops, and uprooted trees. It was heartbreaking to see the damage.

You stare out the window in disbelief as to what you are seeing and say a prayer for the folks affected and one for yourself that we had been spared. A couple miles either way, and crops look great. One man's disaster is another's gift.

The next hundred miles or so, life is good. Between irrigation and rains, pastures are green, corn, beans, and sugar beets are lush and bountiful. The further west you go, the climate becomes drier, the soil’s less productive, you begin to see an increase in winter wheat, sugar beets, hay, and pasture land. 

Pine Bluff, Wyoming, sits right on the Nebraska border. As a matter of fact, there is an old truck stop on Highway 30 that sits on the line. Interestingly, there were 4 fuel pumps in Nebraska and 5 feet away, 10 in Wyoming. A tribute to the higher fuel taxes here [in Nebraska]. The same cannot be said today; fuel is higher in Wyoming.

I felt a bit of apprehension as we approached Pine Bluff this week. After seeing the Weather Channel video of the devastation, I did not know what to expect. Interestingly enough, the wind on this storm was from the south and the majority of the town is south of the tracks. We saw several buildings with a lot of damage, but not the devastation I expected to see. The head high corn was reduced to broom handles, pasture reduced to bare ground, alfalfa ready to cut now looks like it was harvested. Fortunately, the majority of the wheat was already cut and thus, was spared. Pine Bluff gets its name from the pine trees on the bluff that overlook the town. These trees had a lot of damage and were thinned just like the ones in Julesburg.  

Surreal, I guess, is the poets’ and writers’ term to describe when you see this type of devastation. Awe at Mother Nature’s power and feelings of loss in the pit of your stomach would better fit my background and understanding.

With a month or so to go in the growing season, let's all hope and pray that the rain is gentle and abundant, and those affected by this summer’s storms can find the hope and strength to move forward. Say a prayer for their well-being and a pray of thanksgiving for the blessings we have all received this summer.

Pixar Movies set to Rock Music

This weekend is my parent's 40th wedding anniversary. Super awesome, I know.

To celebrate, all of my sisters, one brother-in-law, and a very spoiled-with-love 14 month old invaded my parent's house to help celebrate.

Now, I love my family to pieces. I would do anything for them, but they can get a little overwhelming at times. 

Yay for being an introvert. 

Now, if you don't know, introverts have to take time to recharge after a lot of social stimuli or we break down... or in my case, lash out and/or burst into tears. I have been working on different ways to deal with my inevitable breakdowns the last year or two and hiding with my laptop and earbuds is my go-to way to recharge on family weekends.

So, after a fun-filled day of too little sleep, family dinners, watching my nephew splash around in a totally awesome whale pool, the park, and a very short nap, I have stashed myself in the dining room with my computer and earbuds to work on one of the 5 projects that are currently sitting open on my computer waiting to be completed. 

The problem is, the seat closest to an outlet is also the one facing the T.V. in the living room so I have spent more time than I should "watching" Toy Story 3. 

Picture from JoBlo
There's a new Jason Bourne movie coming out too.
It's called Jason Bourne. Good job movie people.

I've never seen it, but it is definitely interesting set to the music of Shaman's Harvest and Five Finger Death Punch.

*Note: It's heartbreaking watching Andy get rid of his toys to any soundtrack.

*Second Note: That fuchsia bear is more of a dick than anything that color has any right to be.

But I am sad to report that, even after being hounded by my sister all weekend about finishing the novel that I am no where near being done with, that "alone time" resulted in very little actual writing.

Damn ADD.

Oh, look! a chicken!

Picture from BackYard Chickens
And I am fabulous, thank you very much!

The Struggle is Real

For the last two weeks or so, I've been struggling with probably the second worst problem a writer will encounter.

I have hardly written anything and I wish I was only talking about writer's block. I know a bunch of ways of conquering that... and by conquering, I mean stubbornly forcing my way past it.

But, I have not been struggling against lowly, evil, simple, loathed writer's block.

Oh no.

This problem is one of my own making.

The lack of self-motivation.

Oh, the horror!

I am one of the first people to say that you have to write regularly and protect your writing time from those who would steal it from you.

From That One Girl on Jet
Filthy Hobbitses

But I am also one of the first people to complain about how hard it is. Regular life is not made for writers, especially ones like me who have always struggled with motivation.

It's true. Just ask my old boss.

Or my parents.

Well, that took a depressing turn.

Anyway, I think there is a fine line that writer's have to tread (don't ask me for advice on it, because I have yet to find the line) between forcing yourself to write because it will help in the long run and turning writing into a chore (don't turn it into a chore though, it is far more fun than doing dishes or cleaning out the litter box).

There are days that I treat writing like a reward: "I cleaned the bathroom and earned myself an hour of writing time" and there are other days where I cringe and whine (internally of course, my roommates don't need to hear that) about needing to get some writing down.

I wish I had some advice other than: stick to it and good things will happen (which I'm pretty sure came out of a fortune cookie somewhere).

But I don't.

Sorry.

Sometimes that's okay, though. Sometimes it's just good to know there is somebody in the world who feels your pain.

And I feel you.

Not literally, though, that might be illegal depending on your age and is definitely all around creepy.

From some person's blog, no idea.
Did you seriously think this was not going to happen?

My Uneventful Beginning

I wasn't lucky enough to be one of those people who always knew what they wanted to be and I definitely wasn't lucky enough to always know that I wanted to be a writer. In fact, I'm a little jealous of the people who have been writing since they could hold a pen.

The first time I remember really enjoying writing was when my middle school English teacher, Mrs. Scheele, had us write what we thought happened after the selection from Dandelion Wine that was in our books. Beyond writing assessments, I had never written anything except research papers so this turned into an interesting activity.

From Elfwood.
Just wanted you to see a cute little
dragon sitting on a book.
You're welcome.

Wish I could remember if it was any good but I guess that doesn't really matter. I enjoyed writing it.

But I kind of attribute this assignment to being the beginning of my writing, even thought it wasn't until college that I started writing for fun.

I had always had a good imagination and I was always coming up with pretend people in pretend scenarios. I guess you could say that instead of my imaginary friends going away as I grew up, they morphed into the characters in my books.

I took a creative writing class in college for my English requirement and really enjoyed it (except for the poetry since I suck at writing it). The moment I realized that I could be good at writing was at the end of the semester when the teacher had us read something we had written to the whole class. While most people read a poem or two so they weren't standing for very long, I read a section from a story I had started for the class. Most people zoned out like college students do, but there were two or three people who were enthralled. One even asked me if I was going to finish it. Made my day.

I should find that and see if it's worth finishing.

Well, that class got me going and I even started writing a novel just for the fun of it. It is a historical romance set in Medieval England. I was really into historical romances at the time and wrote it how I thought historical romances were supposed to be written.

It wasn't bad, it just wasn't groundbreaking. And it took me about six years to write because, even though I enjoyed writing, it was kind of a hobby that I picked up once a month or so when I was bored.

I think it was about halfway through my novel that I began to think I could actually do this.

Thank you Google.
All true.
Sadly.

Become a writer.

The realization didn't come on a lightening bolt or in a sudden moment of clarity. It just sort of crept into me.

Probably brought on by the question:

"What the hell am I going to do with this book when it's done?"


I had my mom read some of what I had written (she liked it, and she swears it's not just because she made me), and I started taking the whole project more seriously. I promised to write at least once a week,

I was going to finish it.

Pretty much just to see if I could.

I'm not very good at finishing projects so it surprised me more than anybody when I declared it done.

Well, by then, I had an idea for my next novel and then things spiraled out of control in the following years. I now have so many projects that my head spins just thinking about them.

From Mrs. Laffin's Laughings

I definitely wouldn't say that I came to writing late in life (22 isn't exactly over the hill, and neither is 30 thank you very much) but it wasn't even considered when I thought about my future. I majored in history and English because I enjoyed history and reading. Now, I can't imagine being anything else...

Except published by one of the big houses but that's more of a dream than a plan.

Top 15 Things I Wish I Had Known Before I Became a Writer

There were a lot of things I didn't know when I started writing. Which is understandable because I didn't know any writers; I had only spent most of my life reading the books they had produced. I knew I had a lot to learn. What caught me off guard was that there were even more things I didn't know I didn't know.

Thanks bro.

15. This is not an "overnight success" business.

But, when I first started writing with the idea of being published someday, I thought it was. In my mind, my first novel was good enough for the first agent to snatch it up and immediately get it to a publisher and I would see it in bookstores in just a few months. Boy, I was so far off.

Now, I know that it would be a miracle to go from query letter to publisher in less than a year.

14. Everybody has a correct way of doing things.

And their way will be the only "right" way. Well, they're wrong. The key to this one is to find what works for you. You might have a different process from that person and their way will cause you to block so hard, a case of prune juice wouldn't move it.

But on the other hand, don't be afraid to try new things. Just because it has always worked for you doesn't mean it's the best way for you. And remember, if something new doesn't end up working, you can always go back.

13. You don't actually need an agent to get published.

But it does help. A lot of the big publishing houses won't accept unsolicited manuscripts (manuscripts directly from authors). They'll only accept manuscripts from agents they work with. But if you don't have your heart set on places like Random House, there are plenty of publishing houses that are open to submissions directly from authors.

12. There are so many different options for writers to get their work read.

When people think of publishing, traditional publishing (agent, publishing house, paper books, etc.) is what comes to mind first, but there is so much more out there for writers. The rise of companies like Amazon have made it more financially possible for writers to self-publish their work and get it into the hands of people all around the world. There are also hundreds of special-interest magazines both in print and online that accept submissions. There are dozens of websites like Wattpad where people can share their work for free and others can read it without charge. And of course blogs are always fun for writers who want to write for hundreds of people with very little limitation.

Preach!

11. The more you write, the better you get.

Surprisingly enough, your writing skills can get rusty without regular use. That's why everybody always encourages to write every day. Not only does it get you in the habit and forces you to get some work done, it makes you better.

10. Do your research.

Research who you are sending your work to. Some people might say that any agent/publisher is better than no agent/publisher. And those people are wrong. You generally don't have to worry about an agent/publisher stealing your work (Tip- "Poor Man's Copyright"- send a copy of your writing to yourself but keep the envelope sealed, the postmark proves when you wrote it) because agents/publishers make money if your book does well (there are the unscrupulous ones out there so beware). But you do have to worry about them stringing you on, company restructuring, no communication, or returning your calls/emails, bullying you into things you don't want to do, etc.

Also, research your material. If you don't know when the Great Wall of China was completed or how quickly somebody will stroke out after being injected with air, ask Google. Or better yet, head to your local library. Not only is there thousands of books close at hand full of information, being around books can be inspirational.

9. Covers are important.

This probably doesn't need to be said, but I didn't realize how important your cover art is when I started. "Don't judge a book by it's cover" doesn't mean squat. The more interesting your cover is, the more likely somebody will pick it up to read the synopsis. A member of my writing group said that my book sales might be lack luster for my rom-com because there aren't any people on the cover, even though the cover is pretty and I'm proud of it (it's the first one I did completely myself), I have to admit she's probably right. If you are multi-talented and can create art for your cover, DO IT! Or if you can afford to pay somebody to create a cover, DO IT! 

8. You never stop learning.

I can write an entire post about this one alone (and probably will) so I'll try to keep it short. A writer truly never stops learning. You're always researching topics that you would have never found interesting but because your character has that occupation, or lives in that town, or is affected by these events, you suddenly become an expert so you produce the best story you can.

7. Find a support system.

Not just friends and family who cheer you on, even though they are very important (plus, they're guaranteed to buy a few of your books). Find a writer's group or just one or two writing friends. They can hold you accountable, empathize with you, and offer advice. Plus, sometimes it's just nice to talk to somebody who has had the exact same challenges that you face and have made it through.

No wonder I have back problems.

6. Have the proper tools handy...

As in always and everywhere. I can't tell you the number of times that I have had a story idea or even just a scene pop into my head and I didn't have any paper or a pen handy. That's why I keep a notebook in my purse and always have a pen close by because you never know when inspiration will strike.

5. Writer's block is very real and very painful.

As much as I would love to say that there is a sure-fire way to get through it, there isn't. Different things work for different people and sometimes a method that has worked in the past doesn't anymore. You just have to keep at it and never give up.

4. There will come a day where you hate everything you write.

Been there, done that. Don't give up because this too, shall pass. Plus, you might hate it because you've been with it from the beginning. You see where the smooth flowing narrative trips over a few bad lines. You see the tiny, insignificant questions that your audience will never notice. Take a breather and get back to it. You've got this.

3. You have to learn to talk about yourself and your work with confidence.

I am the first to admit that this is not my strong suite. I've never been good at talking about my achievements. It always felt like bragging and makes me uncomfortable. But in this industry, word-of-mouth is so important. You need to be able to talk about your writing in hopes of luring another reader into your fold. Convince them they can't go another day without reading your book. 

2. Get a thick skin.

Professional rejection isn't the only kind we have to deal with. Friends/family/acquaintances might not like your work either. And that is totally okay. Don't think that just because Aunt Ethel doesn't like your coming-of-age-werewolf-in-space-murder-mystery, doesn't mean you are a terrible writer. It just means that she might prefer something with Fabio or battleships on the cover.

Plus, for every person you know who doesn't read your book because "it's not their thing," there will be somebody close to you who will read it just because you wrote it and will potentially fall in love with your teenage werewolf astronaut Nancy Drew and because of you, be introduced to a whole new genre.

This is not wrong.

1. Edit, edit, edit.

You never truly stop editing. Ever. I wish it would end, but there is always one more rough patch to smooth, one more name to change (for the 50th time), one more twist to throw in, or one more comma to add. 

And take out. 

Then add again.