…Perhaps we were only mildly entertained. Regardless, please enjoy these Reviews, Responses, Works of Fiction, and Retellings brought to you by one who hopes to someday join the ranks of those who have written something worth reading.
(Kaylia Metcalfe)

The Road Staked Out

I have decided to pass up a paid nonfiction writing gig to focus more on my fiction writing. 

Last year was a year of transition for me writing wise... I feel like I hit a wall and then didn't really know how to get around it. I struggled with sense of self, with expectations (both real and imagined, both understandable and downright nut-so), and I floundered. A lot.

I am ready to rededicate myself to writing. To the written word that is produced by me. In fiction.

I am giving myself permission to write crap. To write badly. To write stories in drafts that are silly, lame, go no where, and have no point. I am giving myself permission to start over as a fiction writer, to wipe the slate clean and let go of the few nonfiction vestiges I have been holding onto.

I am going to stop calling myself a free lace writer, an author. I am going to start calling myself a writer's apprentice. I am going to read good books written by good writers and then hone my craft. I am going to read books on writing written by writers I admire and let go of the critiques of those who's work I don't appreciate. I am not going to write book reveiws. I am not going to edit anyone elses work. I am not going to collaborate. I am going to be selfish with my free time. I am going to reattach myself to the keyboard.

I am going to write when I don't feel beset by the muse. I am going to write when I am unsure of where I am going. I am going to write for me and not think about what will happen when the writing part is over. I am going to wallow in the writing process. I am going to rediscover my fiction voice. I am going to ramble and vent and think and finally let some of the demons out of my head an back onto the page where they belong.

I want this year to be the year that I am, once again, proud of myself... maybe not proud of what I wrote exactly... but proud again that I bothered to write at all.

I am going to find myself again through the words that only I can pick and place on the page.

Consider yourself warned.

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