Does Failure Define You?

IMG_1643March 13, 2017. I read the results to the first chapter book contest I entered at the first of the year. I didn’t even place. I didn’t like the books that did place either. So, what made them so much better than mine? It took me about a day to get over the wasted months I spent constantly excited I would win first place. Surely I had worked harder on my first chapter than all the other amateur authors I was up against. (I spent countless nap times writing and revising) 😔 Everything in life had always come so easily for me. Alas, I came to the conclusion my second book was terrible.

later that week I re-read what I had submitted and decided I was going to redirect the underlying meaning of my book. What I had written to entertain my friends, I would now change to not only entertain but to give glory to God. Or atleast write it in the sense of his word always being at the forefront in my mind. Don’t be misguided that my book will be about God, but some things will have to change so it’s not so…harsh. It is a romance novel after all.

My purpose on earth might only be to provide support and love for my husband and kids, but I need something else to do with my time. Why can’t something I write be both entertaining and hopeful? So here I sit waiting for inspiration, to change the parts of my book that need changing to provide that.

Failure doesn’t define me, it keeps me constantly changing. Ever adapting to what’s being thrown at me, making me better. Humbling the inner prima donna. Maybe my book doesn’t get finished while I have small children nipping at my heels. Or maybe I try harder. We shall see!



Writing is my hobby. What’s yours?

Pippi above has turned into Donna.

It’s November 2012. I sit in my chair at the salon, the anxiety of all the moving and family issues gnaw a hole behind my eyes. I attempt to read the 56th novel of the past two months to pass the time till my next client comes in, but my mind can’t turn off it’s own thrilling story line.

I sit back in my black leathery chair and begin imagining my life in fiction form. So, I pick up a pen and start writing. Right there in my chair as my co-worker stands beside me blowing out some 20 something’s do for her big night out. All, oh my gawd this and oh my gawd that. Finally, I begin to get my story on paper.

A year and a baby later I was still working on that novel. Hair stylist forgotten and author I am. I create synopsis’ and queries for 100 different agents. Another year later and I realize the book is terrible and that’s why the agents declined to read more than one chapter, not that I just hadn’t found the right agent. I begin another book, as well as a new job in internet analysis. I could be home with my kid and do what called me.

Fast forward three years and one more kid. I’m still working on that second novel, the first long forgotten and stuffed into the back of my theoretical computer drawer. Hoping no one finds it, but too proud to delete it because so much of myself was poured out into the pages. My fears, my anxieties, my stress, my happiness, all written in fiction for anyone to mock. I don’t think so.

I quit my internet analyst job to write content for company blogs. Blogmutt. If you haven’t heard of it, google it. It’s pretty awesome, especially for stay at home moms who need to get out of their heads.

So here I am. March 2017. Still working on book 2. And guess what? I’m going to finish it. And you are going to read it.