Will practice make up for lack of talent?
If I listen to the voices that tell me I can’t, or it’ll never happen, I ensure that I don’t and it won’t. If I try anyway, there’s at least a chance. Whose voices hold me back? Well, that’d be my inner voice and I’m no longer listening. I’m a trained negotiator. Here’s where I offer a deal with any guardian angel lurking nearby:I offer this deal
I’ll put in the work and you, dear guardian angel, be the angel you are to give a little boost to make my wish come true. Please.
In case you accept, I wrote out my wish as my slogan, vision, goal, action plan, mantra and words of advice to follow.
I will tell great stories well.
I added it as a tagline for a poster to hang over your … well, wherever it is angels hang out. I even took a heavenly photo to inspire you to accept.
Dear guardian angel, I’m not asking for you to arrange a publishing deal, although it’d be great if you added one in the negotiation. Just help me tell great stories well.
I’m doing my part to motivate you to see my perspective.
I flew to Toronto to read my short story at the launch of the anthology in which it was published. Some in the audience cried. First time I was ever happy to make people cry. Bless them for reacting so movingly to my tale.
Every day I practice writing and editing my words. That’ll have to do since I don’t have talent for great writing – yet.
I stand at my journey’s junction. The Cancer Highway of emotional traumas and bodily insults carried me here. However, I won’t let that route be my only story.
It’s a blessing to have choice
I stop to consult the map, to deliberate on where I go in the next iteration of my life, since I’ve been granted more years (thank you, guardian angel).
To my left meanders Leisure Street. If I choose it, I slide into retirement, whatever that looks like. It means unplanned days to fill as opportunity arises.
On my right, is Writing Road. It promises lonely hours at my desk sweating words, agonizing over sentence structure and scenes, the pain of rejection, feeling vulnerable, and ~ maybe ~ someday seeing a manuscript turn into a published book.
And the opportunity to tell great stories well.
Then, the six months I spent crafting one sentence would contribute to the whole manuscript.
That would make me happy.
Maybe, someone will publish it. Then I could tell more great stories well. That would make me grateful.
If my novel makes someone cry, I no longer see that as scary. It’s the role of writers to play with emotions.
Stories are the foundation of our belief systems.
We carry our origin story, experiences that shaped us stories, why we are the way we are story, and the story that explains why we’re correct to hold onto all those other stories.
Tell great stories well
Those four words convey my deepest unfulfilled desire. There. I said it out loud. Did any angel hear?
Now, must get back to editing my novel.