A birthday and Random Thoughts

Happy Birthday Ruby!!!!!

I hope this birthday is an absolutely wonderful one. You've been a great friend. Have an awesome day! You deserve it.

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(hey, it was the only way I could think of to separate the two - whenever I published, they ran together - any suggestions?)

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So, just what is it with the title of this blog? The long and writing road (besides a play on one of my favorite Beatles songs) is a journey that many of us "un-published" writers travel every day. Its a quest for just THE book that will get our proverbial foot in the publishing world. It's a wild ride, sometimes lonely, sometimes so full that its hard to breathe, but never, never dull. Hard, frustrating, tragic, wrenching ... but never dull. For me the journey began in childhood with the fantasies and mystical worlds I created everywhere I turned. This fantasy world filled me, sustained me through some very tough times in my life. I'd spend my days in Collinsport, or on the bridge of the starship Enterprise (where I really was going to marry Chekhov). As I grew older I started to solve mysteries with a girl named Nancy, dumped Chekhov for Keith Partridge, Dave Starsky and Joe Hardy (wait, Keith Partridge and Joe Hardy? Isn't that kind of incestuous?) and continued to dream. Then my mother introduced me to some very fine ladies named Violet Winspear, Mary Burchell, Betty Neels and Mary Wibberley. I became hooked on this thing called romance and dumped Donny Osmond for aristocrats and doctors. And my dreams broadened. That's when the voices began ... you know those voices - the weavers of stories, the narrators of vivid tales of love, romance and adventure. I even tried writing a Presents once somewhere around the 9th grade (that was just 7 years ago - watch it!). But then something happened. I suddenly developed this fear of mistakes. I became obsessed with homework, agonizing over every word, every comma, every grammatical mistake I was making until, suddenly, I couldn't write anything down. Not a good sign for a writer. So I shelved that dream and went on with my life. But the daydreams continued, the voices still whispered to me, and the self-imposed exile to the land of no writing became a silent torment. About 13 years ago that began to change. Slowly my world started coming into focus and the voices became louder until they would no longer be silenced. So I began to write, to push those boundaries I had erected around me. I even joined a writer's group ... and for someone with agoraphobia that was one of the hardest things I ever had to do. And the words began forming, the ideas sprang from me sometimes so much, so fast that I couldn't keep up. It was if someone had opened the floodgates and I couldn't stop it. I wrote a book. Yep folks, I actually have one. Oh it needs a lot of editing, and the story is really ... mediocre at best. But that's not the point. It's written. So what's the problem? Well, other than the fact that I hate the book? That's about the time I began taking care of my parents, dropped out of the writer's group and pretty much gave up writing again. Until last year. Until I began blogging and the muses sprung up in me and all gave a shout of Hallelujah! That's when I decided that writing, for me, wasn't just a hobby. It was a passion, an all-consuming need to write down the stories of all the voices in my head. So this week I decided that I had wallowed in depression for long enough. That I was going to get my life back in some sort of order (hence the cleaning of the desk) and I was going to start back on that journey, back on that long and writing road. Wanna walk with me?