There’s something about a new keyboard on a new laptop. Each letter makes a distinct click as your fingers brush across it. None of them stick, having not yet fallen victim to that spilled cup of morning coffee. They still have that slippery feeling against your fingertips. If I leaned closely enough, they may even have that new keyboard smell.
New laptop. New start.
After self-publishing two books, I have the fever. Words are my drug of choice, and I’m hooked. I don’t hold delusions of being the next best-seller. I would settle for selling to someone beyond friends and family. But I do hold strong to the idea that I am a writer and that I need to write. I must write.
My sister gave me a blank notebook for Christmas. Its purpose? To fill it with all the ideas I have for books I want to write. It’s the best material gift I’ve ever received. And while I fill that with the ideas, I intend to fill this blog, chapter by chapter, with the journey I’m about to undertake. My next book. My process. My joys. My shortcomings. All of the madness that comes after one declares, “I am a writer.”
I am a writer. Let the story begin.