A Novel in Crisis

Yesterday, I suffered a small crisis (and by small I mean catastrophic).

About midmorning, after I had paced around the house, thrown away various crumpled pieces of paper and laid in the empty bathtub for an hour, I was struck by an awful realization. I was no longer interested in my novel. The horror, the horror. I know.

So I wrote to my friend in Virginia, sending out a mayday. She called me four times while I was out, but when she got me on the phone she talked me back to the book for almost forty-five minutes. Then my good friend Charles did the same. Both to me that there was a still a story to tell, that they liked the characters - and after swimming through my mildly frantic panic, I realized that it was the truth. Some tentative interest has returned, and timid curiosity creeps back onto the page.

On a lighter note, I have found another place to send When Otis Met Everlyse. I'm going to expand the story by about ten pages, make it more mythical, more fantastic and send it out to this fantasy mag I found that accepts new writers, exposes their work to anthologies and contests and who pays. Happiness abounds.

Lastly, I think I might have the option to visit my friend in Virginia. We're holding out hope.

So say we all.
Bri