Next?

I've finished my second major rewrite of the Punjabi love story (YEAH) and, as always, it's bitter sweet. I feel as though I need to put it away for a while, get some distance from it before I look at it with some fresh eyes for the MAJOR-MAJOR overhauls to come. As always, it's unsettling. I'm adrift with indecision. What do I do? Do I start a brand new project? Work on that Louisiana piece that's been haunting me for years? Maybe pull out the information on Kentucky ghost towns and find out what story is nibbling the edge of my brain from Creelsboro...

Or do I finally hunker down and flesh out my historical fiction, Color of Death? I'm so passionate about getting that story out there. Especially since it's a true story. And a murder mystery to boot!!! But I've been pondering this story for the better part of a week and I still haven't decided whether to rewrite it from Michael's point of view - a freed slave, teenage boy - definitely all of which I'm not. Or whether I should keep it in the form of a time travel  novel - which would allow me to keep the bit about the slave gravesites that have been covered by a university parking lot.

Or do I rewrite that pesky Dandelion Fuzz, telling the truth about EVERYTHING (see my Uhaul post), which would be a grueling, difficult rewrite and, frankly, something I'm not positive I'm up for this summer.

But the summer is quickly waning. And I am riddled with indecision. There are only so many more days of deliberation left. These are the types of things that plague my mind when I'm sitting at the pool, pretending to be a part of conversations...

If you have any thoughts, please feel free to chime in. For now, I'm off to the pool to percolate and pretend to listen.

The UHaul I Drag Behind Me

This is the post I've wanted to write ever since I signed with Jodell and recommitted to this blog. Here are the reasons for my hesitation:

First of all, it's about to get real up in here. Secondly, I've been told by every school system, etc, that I'm not allowed to talk about this because it will upset the kids. So I haven't talk about it. Here's the problem. By not talking about it, it makes me feel guilty, like I'm the one at fault. Like I've done something wrong, something of which I should be ashamed. Thirdly, this blog is supposed to be related to the working woman trying to carve out time for writing. I'm trying to make this blog relevant to all writers. However, in my personal writing journey, my Uhaul is pivotal. And I'm certain that all human beings have some type of baggage they carry on their journey. Finally, I haven't written this post because I have a family member who feels personally responsible for my Uhaul. I'm afraid to talk about it because I don't want to hurt that person. I love that person more than life itself, but I don't hold that person responsible any more than I blame God for terrorism.

Because I have finally come to the conclusion that it needs to be said, here goes nothing: I am a survivor. Specifically, I survived date rape. The significance of this is not to be taken too lightly. People who have survived date rape have trusted someone, maybe invited them into their home. In my case, I dated this person for a while, believed he was in love with me and respected my boundaries. Because he violated my trust and the basic fiber of who I was, I no longer trust easily.

People often ask me why I'm so insecure. This is why. The person who raped me told me I was beautiful one day and then wanted to put a bag over my head while he was stealing my soul. I won't go into details, but my self-esteem was raped in an instant. I don't trust people when they say they want to be my friend. I'm constantly wondering when they are going to grow tired of me, when they'll let me know that they were simply using me for something. I fear that I'm never enough.

Fast forward to becoming a gifted/talented consultant. I felt very confident and was very successful in Virginia, established quite a name for myself. I moved to Michigan and, because it wasn't understood, I lost everything, including my reputation. I won't go into detail because it still hurts, but the rumors started by the man who never even knew me made me feel violated once again.

Then I started making jewelry. I met a woman who wanted to sell my jewelry in her shop. I allowed myself to feel hopeful, giddy even. Maybe there was something I did well. Overnight, her shop closed and hundreds of dollars worth of my jewelry was gone. Not a word, nothing.

Now I've signed a contract with Jodell Sadler, a kind, brilliant, wonderful agent. People want to know why I'm not dancing in the street. It's important for people to know that, unfortunately, not everyone in this world blindly trusts. I want to. And I'm happy!!! And so excited!!! But I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. I'm not doubting Jodell. I am doubting myself. What if my writing isn't as good as she first thought? What if she doesn't really believe in it? What if, what if, what if...

I felt as though I needed to write this so that people would understand. I am a woman of extreme faith. Think about it. I have had the unimaginable happen to me. I'm not asking for sympathy. I'm asking for compassion. I think I'm pretty amazing for subjecting myself to rejection after the ultimate rejection; for continuing to trust in others at all, even after I've found some people to be completely untrustworthy. To believe wholeheartedly in God. Because He is the reason I'm a survivor. No, not a survivor. A thriver!

So, please cut me a little slack if I apologize too much or if I'm lacking in confidence. All things considered, I'm doing pretty well. Some days my Uhaul veers off course. But, every day I hike up my big girl panties and drive down the road anyhow. Thanks for being part of my journey

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