Eleanor Tatum

I have written about the church in our backyard, or Back Garden as the British say. It rings the hour (9a, 12p, 3p, 6p) and then plays one verse of a Christian hymn, most of them I either recognize or can sing along, because of my appreciated childhood. This morning it was “This Is My Story”.

“This is my story. This is my song. Praising my savior all the day long.” There’s more, but memory fades somewhat. My point is … that title fits this author and it has kicked my literary backside into gear.  The amount of time I have dedicated to my writing life has been pitiful.

Which brings me to the non-creative side of my business. I am not happy in this part. Procrastination prevails. I need to write a synopsis for each of my six novels if I am to successfully capture an agent of worth.

I am not condensed milk. I do not enjoy condensing my beloved historical characters, and all they have to say, into the present time and delete conversation. It feels as if I have put them in an electric dryer, deflowered them somehow. The plots are similar in difficulty, but not as gut-boiling. The setting, my swamp, hasn’t changed for thousands of years, except for manmade stuff. Still the process is stifling.

I have decided to mix this business around. I’ll do what needs to be done, but work on my WIP on the same day. I need the fluid bit to loosen my joints and enjoy this life.

Enough!