I don’t have to tell you how scary sharing your writing can be. I’ve written about it before, and I think we’ve all experienced it in some fashion. You sweat your blood into a project, and then you give it to somebody who could possibly love it, possibly hate it, and definitely has the ability to crush your delicate
Well, the other day I sent my child, Summer Rush, off to a great blogger because she was awesome and wanted to read it (the two facts are not related – as in, she isn’t awesome because she wanted to read it. Haha). She liked it, so that was great for my ego. It bolstered my faith a little more that SR isn’t doomed to the SAFE THAT HOUSES/HIDES AWFULNESS for the rest of its life.
A couple of days ago, I finished Next Full Moon. A few days before that, I was explaining its plot to my sister and brother, both who were fascinated and wanted to know what happened. So as soon as I finished it and gave it a quickie revision, my sister demanded to read it. I sent it to her yesterday, and she started reading it this morning before class.
Yesterday, a scriptwriter that I know from church and I were talking about books and writing and such, and he asked very politely if he could read one of my books sometime. So I’m trying to decide what I should send to him that isn’t too angsty teenage-girly.
There’s a point to this post, and it is this: sharing is scary, and I’m about to do a lot of it in the next couple of weeks. I kind of wish I was already living in my alley behind Logan’s so nobody could find me to ask to read my
If there are no posts for awhile, assume it’s because either my sister or the scriptwriter hated my books and I’m crouched under my bed, sobbing and tearing out my hair and otherwise mourning for the death of my ego.