A few months back I had the honor of talking with Michelle Raab for her blog, Michelle Raab Writes. She asked me why I write and why I decided to begin this journey as an indie author. Check out our full conversation here.
I saw it in a documentary first. Minimalism. These two guys talk about the trappings of a busy life and walk around in misty scenes with acoustic guitar music in the background. I feel my soul yearn for the, whatever the documentary is trying to sell me on. It speaks to me. And then come the tiny house programs. I've toured a few. Some make me roll my eyes. Who wants a automated bookshelf? Nothing simple about that, sorry. Life happens. Once upon a time I considered writing a blog called "Failing Minimalism." Because as much as I embrace the concepts, life manages to hijack my plans. Ask my daughter how many black cardigans I own. She'll tell you too many. And then I go and find another one. But I am pretty good about getting rid of stuff I don't like. I just like to keep several versions of what I do like. Coffee mugs are another weakness of mine. I am currently banned from acquiring more. So my daughter just brings them to me so her dad can't find ...
I just figured out a title, and there isn't anything exceptional about it. I've settled on "Stetsons and Strangers." There we go. It's a title. And sometimes, it just has to be finished. My best friend's little boy made that statement once and it has stuck with me since. (Out of the mouth of babes?) It doesn't have to be perfect. It just has to be done. And sometimes, done is better than perfect. Perfect is a demanding master. Perfect makes it difficult to a place where you can look back on your accomplishments, because nothing ever gets accomplished. So I have a title, and while it doesn't necessarily "pop" it is sufficient. On another note, I have reached a point in the revision of the novel that I can smile and think to myself: "You know, this isn't half bad." Perfection isn't all it's cracked up to be.
Once upon a time I wrote a novella. I fell in love with this, and I always thought that it was some kind of magnum opus. ..my great work. But I put it out there in the world and no one, save a couple of m y closest friends, took a look at it. Is this a sign that my judgment is a bit off? At least in regards to my own writing. To tell you the truth, I loved, adored, treasured that little story. If I could have held the story in my hands I would have done so, and maybe even put the cutest little ribbon around its neck and patted the top of its wee head. Here's a bit of it: He would hold it first, gently, between his fingers, gaze at his name written in a hand as fine as calligraphy. Harper Mason scrawled in elegant black ink against an eggshell white background. Whether the pen was engraved and gold plated or the ninety-nine cent variety from the drug store, he could never guess. To him, there never was a finer specimen of perfect penmanship to behold. ...
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