If you write, you’re probably familiar with two things: the illicit joy of inspiration and the unpleasant stress of writer’s block. In moments of giddy comprehension I’ve leaped out of the shower with minimal toweling and scurried to my computer, plot twists and aha!moments laid out at a furious eighty words a minute. I’ve also sat in front of my computer, fifth cup of tea in hand, and barely scraped forty words from the creative jar. Blockage? Lack of enthusiasm or inspiration? Yes and yes, but also no.

Creativity waxes and wanes, and while some seemed blessed with a constant full moon, and others cursed to the darkness, the truth is most people experience the rising and setting of their creativity on a weekly, if not daily, basis. And when that low-point strikes, when that tedious thorn burrows its way into your creative process, what do you do? Wait for inspiration? Write five thousand words of crap that will only be deleted within the week?

If you’re a writer who wants to be successful in any way, the answer is always: Don’t wait. Write.

Write, write and write some more! Grab your metaphorical tweezers and begin the slow, sometimes agonizing process of removing that lodged thorn until your creativity flows again. I’ve had many thorns, and I’ll have many more in the future. They hurt, they make me want to stop using my fingers and consume some other medium (like tv). Nothing kills your creative flow more than that stupid thorn, and your brain acts the unwitting accomplice. Don’t listen. Just write more.

Even when it hurts, because it will hurt. Every horrid word dredged from those barren depths will make your eyes burn.

Writing is what removes the thorn. In this case, fight writing less with writing more. So what if it’s unreadable drivel? Words on the page are a cure-all for writer’s block. It’s the only way I know how to recapture inspiration, and perhaps you’re like me and you needed someone to say it out loud.

You don’t need to be inspired to write. That’s a hard truth, and I still find myself struggling to accept it.

I’m not a proficient blogger. I never know what to say in so few words, so that’s why I write stories. I’m not someone who writes important, life-changing nuggets of wisdom (I pan for those on my off days). My words are a series of subtle shifts that gingerly guide this intrepid vessel to swaths of open ocean where I feel lost and vulnerable all over again.

So, why am I doing this?

• Because I do, in fact, have something to say.
• Because it will help me focus on something that is (hopefully) bigger and brighter than I could ever hope to be.

I want to tell a story that isn’t about myself, though if you squint at the text long enough you’ll find me, buried in the void between words. I’m a thirty-eight year old woman, a mother, a shameless dreamer and, for reasons I have difficulty explaining, I’m telling the story of a nineteen year old boy who surmounts endless odds to discover who, and what, he truly is.

It’s a world I tuck into when I need to get away. It’s actually not a happy world, it’s full of many of the same difficulties and expectations as the real one. But I’m the mover, the puppeteer. Out here I’m powerless. In there, I have more power than you could possibly imagine.

If you have any interest in reading this story, then stick around.

All books start with a premise, and a promise.

The premise:

Trace was found on the shores of a remote fishing village eight years ago, the same day a devastating storm darkened the sea and destroyed a company of Argentine warships on a mission for the Queen of Vassalia.

Now a young man, Trace has carved a tenuous place in Minreth despite his abnormal appearance: ghost-white hair and a searing right eye that unnerves at a glance. His only friend Kyriel, an ambitious herbalist who dreams of a future beyond their isolated village, knows Trace’s secret–he can draw otherworldly lights from crystalline rock found between the Darkwood trees that inhabit the Wilderlands.

A chance meeting with a man in black and an enigmatic woman on the run maneuvers Trace’s fate onto the precipice of a choice: maintain the life he has won for himself, or brave an encounter with a murderous Queen to unearth memories long forgotten and discover who, and what, he truly is.

And now, the promise:

I promise to surprise you at least once. Make you sad, make you laugh. To balance the protagonist’s incorrigible sass with the soft edges of personal loss and the grit of hard truths. It’s my hope (and aspiration) that you’ll find something worthwhile in this world of mine.

This is all a work in progress: this blog, this website, this story, and me. They’re constantly shaped by worries, anxiety, inspiration and how much sugar I’ve had. I’m not special, but like any selfish human I feel an inexorable need to express myself to the world. Or at least to the handful of net-trotters who might stumble across this page.

So, here I am. Kind of.

Welcome to the Wilderlands.

I’m participating in camp NaNoWriMo this April. Here’s a link to my progress. I’m just trying to finish the last 20-30k words of the book now. Optimistically, I think it can be done in 20k. The end is nigh folks! And it’s a horror that rattles my innards in the most thrilling and terrifying way. I’m not talking about my ending (or am I?), but rather the ramifications of “finishing” this book. Because typing that final word on the last page is just the beginning.

The first draft is simply vomiting your story to the page in all of its ugly glory. Those sickly greens and putrid yellows somehow become something meaningful, something deeply connected to your most personal thoughts and fears. All of the parts are there, they’ve always been there. Now to wipe away the slime and polish them.

If you knew me, you would know I’m a creative coward so frightened by failure and success that I’ve walked away from opportunities that someone else would have leaped upon without hesitation. Why? I don’t know. I fear success just as much as failure, its a mental dichotomy that sometimes keeps me awake in the grey hours.

But I’m doing this. There is no shore, only foam wreathed around my knees and a depth I’m beginning to understand.