Writing is sort of like bleeding.
My soul is on these pages even if it doesn't seem like it. Even the most light-hearted reads - you can bet the author bled.
And then you have to cut away some of those precious words you loved, you have to pretty your (book) baby up.
I'm being ruthless today.
I have had a love for words since I was around eight years old. My Mum bought an endless supply of notebooks and pencils (and then when I got my pen licence - pens!) for me to scribble away. Back then, I preferred to do it on the lounge room floor, the busiest room in the house. Now I prefer my office and usually silence. Some days I have music. But silence and a little bit of sunshine streaming in are my usual requirements. We eventually got a home computer when I was sixteen and this made my writing much easier. But I was always reluctant to show any of my work to anyone. Once I emptied my head of a story, I would usually discard of it.
It has only been the last five years I have come out of my writing shell. I have published short stories on a few amateur sites - which I love doing. I love seeing all the raw talent and of course, gaining support. I started a writing degree which I since have stepped away from, finding it was strangling my creative writing rather than helping it along.
Now I am counting down to the release of my first novel.
But first, onto the editing.