My novel is a bird. Yep, you heard me correct. A bird. My novel has taken flight and is out in the world. Never before has anyone ever read any of it. Well, that isn’t true entirely. My fiction writing professor in college read the first two chapters but now that it has a different beginning, she technically has only read the second and that was years ago. Much has changed since then. I finished my first round of editing tonight and offered to share my work with any of my friends who would brutally critique it. So…
My mind is full of stories. I can’t stop. I’m supposed to be editing my novel. While I have started the beginning over, I haven’t touched the rest in days. It sits in a pink binder gathering dust while I rework the first pages, send myself voice memos of lines that I must add throughout, and write. What am I writing? A trilogy. I.Can’t.Stop.Writing. This is a problem. I created a new world in my head. One set in the future. (Yes, dystopian society) I can’t get…
