“It’s your mother, and I haven’t spoken with you in a couple weeks. The last time I heard from you, you were running through the jungles of Ecuador.”
It was an odd voicemail to get considering I was living in Arlington, VA at the time. And then I realized that my mother was referring to my manuscript.
My lead character was chasing a human trafficker through the mountains of Ecuador. Since it had been two weeks since I had spoken with my mother, the last mental image she had of me was from the latest passage of my manuscript. There I was, she pictured, trekking knee-deep in the bush with the bad guys and completely unable to find GPS reception!
She was only joking, of course. We both knew the only jungle I was trekking was my daily commute to Penn Quarter.
But I realized two things from that voicemail. First, it’s probably best for all involved if I never write a redhead again. Second, writing was going to be one of the most humbling experiences of my life.
In a reader’s mind, there’s little separation between an author’s writing and her life, no matter how much we try to insist. In my years working in public relations, I have enjoyed putting the thoughts of other people “out there.” But I shrink at the thought of my own being made public. I didn’t even have a Facebook account until last year!
I never thought that I would find the hardest thing about being a writer is the fact that—when it’s going well—it gets published. I’ll be getting use to that wonderful and frightening fact on this blog, and I hope you’ll write to me as I share this journey with you.