The devil better not come knocking because I’m ready to make that deal.
When I first wrote Jesus Bread, I was still in the MFA program at SNHU. I fell in love with this story. But when I submitted the first draft for round-table feedback, the comments were less than kind:
“The most valuable thing we can do for the psyche, occasionally, is to let it rest, wander, live in the changing light of room, not try to be or do anything whatever.”
― May Sarton
We need more grace in the writing world. People are not book factories. Creating a virtual shouting match about who has it the worst but is still doing better than you helps literally no one. In fact, it hurts.
Every year I’m enchanted by the quiet death of summer and the cooling rise of autumn. This transition occurs around dusk when the winds pick up and goosebumps pop along my arms. I’ll stop and look at the sky; the clouds are always those heavy, rolling gray ones. Autumn arrives as a whisper, but I listen for it year-round.
In 2019, I began work on my novel Her. Like most of my ideas, it started as an image: a mother holding her young daughter, looking out over a crumbling road as a weary sun set on a sickened, dying world. I didn’t know then—how could anyone?