Soulmate: noun.  A person ideally suited to another as a close friend or romantic partner.

People are given two soulmates in their lifetime.

A lover.
The one person who opens your heart to a whole new world and wonder no one can give you.  A single touch electrifies you.  Intensity.  Love.  Honesty.  Affection.  Spiritually.

A best friend.
Someone to spend life with that doesn’t hate you, scar you, && is always there to help && protect you.  Love.  Honesty.  Spiritually.

You can love many people in a single lifetime.  Some stay, but most leave.  Boyfriends.  Girlfriend.  Friends.  Co-workers.  Life hands you hundred’s of people in your life but the ones who matter never leave.  You may not talk daily, or see each other often – but you know, deep inside, they are there forever.

Growing up I always said, and believed, that a person can only have one soulmate until I realized that’s not exactly true and funnily enough, I realized this while watching One Tree Hill.  I will always believe you can only be “in love” with one person in your lifetime.  I don’t believe you can feel something THAT strong for multiple people.  (You can love as many as you want.  Big difference between loving someone && being in love with someone.)

But sometimes I forget about best friends.  That one person you meet and you simply think to yourself this person, I like this person, they will be mine forever.  &&& it’s true, you may not see them on a daily basis, or even monthly basis.  But you know, &&& they know, &&& everyone knows – they are your person.

Your.  Person.
Your bestfriend.
Your companion.

Everyone needs that person too.  You need the one person in your life who isn’t going to tear you down, or make you feel inferior to everyone else.  Someone who doesn’t crumple your spirit, or squeeze you like an orange if you want to believe in rainbows and unicorns.  Someone who will not get mad when you trip them into the mud, or lock them out of the car on a rainy night.

Reading that you started thinking about your wife or husband.  Boyfriend or girlfriend.  But do you think of your best friend.  The person you met in elementary school or junior high.  Possibly high school or college.  Or if you lacked social skills and didn’t develop much until adulthood, maybe you’re thinking about a person at work.  A girl or a guy that makes your life a little less stressful and enjoyable.  Life is hard enough trying to maneuver your way around it – it’s even harder when you’re alone – that’s why God gave you people.  Two people.  The two people that will get you through life without too much struggle, or too much pain, heartbreak, or sorrow.

Those two people.
Your lover.
Your best friend.
Your soul mates.




…I’m not well read enough.

The one thing all authors tell you when you ask about writing books is to read.  &&& read often.  Other than of course writing.  &&& writing often.

I find myself jotting down sentences to paragraphs all the time.  I have a notebook that I keep in my bag (work bag) that has writing all over it.  A sentence, or paragraph, words or names, or even ideas for a story.  Some of it is something I read in books, or something I thought of while sleeping.  I keep notebooks beside my bed, and in my purse.  There are some in my car, and in my dresser.  &&&& to make sure I write at least once a month I am still contributing to a work newsletter where I put a few pages and write on a story for months.  I just finished on, The Cure (which the last part will be uploaded here soon.)  I’m about to start another once I figure out what I want to happen in it.

But what I have been lacking a lot of lately is reading.  I got into a slump a while back and just never finished books that I started or even series.  I told myself this year, 2018, I want to read at least 50 books.  That’s approximately four-ish books a month.  I’m sadly not on part with that, but I’ll get there.  I hope.  I am keeping up with my totals on Goodreads so I know how many I read and how many more I have to go.

As of today, February 8, 2018, I have read two and never finished another.  It tally’s the book I never finished because I left a review for it so according to it I have read three.  I have been wanting to read a series that has been out for about a year, I am reading the first one right now, but I don’t have the other two and cannot find reason to purchase them when I have at least fifty books at home, right now, that I Haven’t read.

But that’s my goal.  That’s my thing this year.  I plan to read this year and hopefully it can help me with my writing.  I also plan to continue wiring for the work thing and hopefully soon I can pick back up Frost (which I think I’ve decided to rewrite it, yes, again.)

So I’ll keep that up and keep this updated on how my progress is going.  But one thing is for sure – I need to get to reading.  Because I still have 48 books to go which is approximately 4 books a month (still) leaving me with 8 more to go.  Yup!  I’m behind.  I sadly don’t want to finish “The Raven” by Sylvain Reynard because I have read all of the other books I own by him and I don’t have “The Shadow” or “The Roman”.

But that’s okay.  I have a few others laying around on book shelves that I need to finish.  The Crossfire Series by Sylvia Day and a few by Christina Lauren.

I’m rambling now.
Closing now.
Have a good evening.
I’ll talk soon.

Last minute thought.  I am also putting in a goal to write in this more often.  If I cannot seem to write stories I can at least write in this blog daily.  Most days.  Maybe not everyday.  I don’t have that much going on in my life.  But a couple times a week.  More than once every three months.

Continuing The Cure…

A while back I began sharing a story that I was writing monthly, however, I got sidetracked and never finished it.  But recently, I picked the story back up and wanted to finish sharing it.

Just a reminder, for the ones who began reading it and never finished or the ones who haven’t began writing it.  First Part, Second Part, Third Part, Fourth Part

Here is the Fifth Part:


Zaire stared in disbelief at the front of a large house – almost mansion like, but not quite.  It was painted a light maroon with large windows covered in black blinds.  The sky was a bit darker than it normally was around six in the evening.  A shiver crawled up his spine knowing this wasn’t going to end well for him.  He knew he had two options: one, say no and be killed or two, do this and ultimately be killed.  He took a deep breath and felt a sigh escape his lips.  All he wanted to do was turn around and go home and pretend none of this happened.  Forget he ever met Quinn.

Quinn – a growl escaped his lips.

His life would have been just fine if he had never run into her.  The trip across the ocean to a tiny deserted island covered in Tesla Coils.  He felt stupid thinking back to what the island looked like when he stood on the beach by the water.  He knew everything seemed weird to him and now that he was standing in this spot – at this time – he knew everything was wrong.  This isn’t how his life was supposed to end up.

He only agreed to this trip for the exposure.  Something new that he hadn’t witnessed before.  But this has turned into a complete nightmare.  A nightmare that he cannot wake up from; something, no matter how hard he tried, he will not be able to come back from.

He had been dropped off and left to his own devices.  They drove him to the middle of nowhere, pushed him out of a nearly moving vehicle, and left – like his life doesn’t matter; giving him the option to either kill or be killed.

The worse part?

He was facing death alone – still.  No one wants to die alone – that’s half his issue with the disease.  He has been facing death for years and has had no one around to face it with.  Hand in hand – buddies.  There is so many people in that compound, she could have sent one other person with him.  Maybe, with two people, this could actually happen.

But no, he was facing this alone.

Zaire looked to his left and noticed a large tree and decided he wanted to take a brief sit down and do some writing.  He had some thoughts he wanted to get down before his train of thought was taken away, leaving something behind in his wake.  The leaves blew gently around him as he sat, getting comfortable, in the grass.  He opened his knapsack and pulled out his tiny worn notebook and pulled the pen out of the binds.  He leaned his back against the tree and began writing:

I’m going to die today and it’s not exactly what I had in mind.  Death.  I have given a lot of thought, lately, to how I would succumb to death and this was not what I had imagined.  I never thought that I would be sitting underneath a tree in a complete stranger’s yard trying to decide how I will kill him.  That’s it though; I’m not going to kill him.  I refuse to kill someone when no one will tell me why they deserve to die.  Does he deserve to die because he wants to be a dictator?  Dictator for what – potato land?  There isn’t anything around here to be the dictator of.  We live in the United States of America – we have a president – and there is no way he is going to be able to overrun the White House and take America.  It’s not possible; I’m not very versed in History, but I’m pretty sure someone, somewhere has already tried – and failed.  What makes this man, of all men, think he is going to be any different than the rest?

I don’t want to die. 

I want to live my life.

I want to write my stories.

I want to share them with the world. 

But now, apparently, people have my life mapped out and I will not come out on top.  It’s heartbreaking, really, to know that my life isn’t important enough for other people that they’d just throw me to the lions and hope for the best.  But my life – to me – it’s perfect – it’s mine.  No, it’s not what I thought my life would be at this point.  But I can accomplish so much in the years to come.   

But… here I sit.  Preparing for my death. 

He sighed to himself before closing the notebook.  He glanced around the property.  It was beautiful; so much green surrounded him.  He had a line of weeping willow trees lined from his mailbox to his front door.  Flower boxes lined every window with blooming yellow, orange, and red flowers.  A pond, far off into the distance, had a large dock surrounding it.  His yard was clean, almost too clean, and his house, itself, was almost too perfect.

Life of a fake dictator, he thought.

He knew, these last few days, he has spent enough time acting and feeling like what he would think a complete girl would feel.  He decided to stomp on those feelings and he stuffed his notebook back into his knapsack and decided to storm into the house and take his life by the reigns.

“Man up, Zaire, if anything in your life is important I’m pretty sure this is.”

He began his walk up the side walk that lead to a large, red front door and pushed the doorbell which ran throughout the whole property.  He chuckled to himself once he realized that it also rang outside.  He would have to remember that when he finally gets to go home – if; his head dropped just as the door opened.

Yes, this is exactly how I will storm into this property.

A short stocky man with greying hair stood before him, “May I help you?”

“Uh, yes.”  Zaire coughed slightly afraid, “I’m looking for someone who apparently looks like me?”  He chose his words slowly, mostly because he was scared that this man was going to eat him.

The short guy titled his head to the side and chuckled darkly, “You do resemble Mr. Aguilar a little.  Are you related to him?”

“Negative, but I need to speak with him, it’s urgent.”

The stocky guy lifted an eyebrow, questioning his motive, “Do you have an appointment with him?”

Zaire shook his head, “No, I do not, but if I don’t talk to him soon – something bad is going to happen.”

The stocky guy’s face fell, almost as if he knew why Zaire was standing there, “It’s always life or death.  Please wait here, I will go get Master Aguilar.”

It felt like million or more years before the man reappeared escorting him inside the house and into a large, half decorated living room, “Please sit, Mr. Aguilar will be with you soon.”

Zaire sat but felt a little weird as he looked up above the mantle and finally saw his first glimpse of Josef Aguilar.  There, attached to the rocks that decorated the wall above the fireplace, hung the largest self-portrait he had ever seen; he blinked a couple times trying to get his eyes to focus and realize that the portrait was in fact, not of himself.  He stood up and took a few steps toward it, his eyes large with alarm.

He knows there is a saying that there is another person, somewhere, that looks like you.  But his common sense told him that it’s not true.  That there is no way there could be another person that would have his traits, his looks, or even his thoughts, unless he had a twin.  However, staring up at the picture he can tell that Josef is much older than he is.

“So freaky,” He said out loud to no one in particular.”

“The resemblance is pretty uncanny.  It’s… a little off putting, actually.”

Zaire jumped slightly, his heart racing, “Oh… hi, are you… Josef Aguilar?”

A man stood before Zaire, straight faced with a five o’clock shadow, his features were sad, “Unless there are three of us, I would assume so.  So, let me guess, Quinn sent you here because we look an awful a lot like one another?”

“Quinn.”  He repeated the words without taking his eyes off of Josef.

Zaire was confused.  How does anyone here know about Quinn?  His heart beat hard, trying to beat out of his chest – did he just walk into a position he didn’t want to be in?

“You’re not the first person who has showed up out of the blue attempting to kill me, however, you are the first person to knock on my front door.”  A small chuckle rattled his chest.  “Lots of courage, perhaps?”

Zaire didn’t say anything.  If they didn’t knock, how’d they enter his house?  Was he really this far out of the loop of things?  And why would he think he has courage?

Josef walked calmly, with his hands clasped behind his back head down, into the living area and sat down in a large dark reclining chair.  On the small table resting beside him sat a pack of cigarettes, the man grabbed it before Zaire had noticed slipping one out and between his lips.  His eyes were determined; fixated on the lighter as it clicked to a small bright flame.  Zaire watched, speechless, as he stuck the cigarette into the flame and inhaled deeply.  He has known many people who smoke but no one seemed quite as passionate as Josef did.  Almost as if he were a perfectionist when it came to smoking; as straight as Zaire is, he felt a small amount of attraction to the man sitting before him.  What made it worse?  The fact that the guy who sat in front of him could be his twin brother.

“Mental note, take up smoking if you get out of this alive,” Zaire said, moving his fingers like he was typing on a typewriter.

“Smoking is a horrible habit, you shouldn’t.  Stick to writing – I’m sure one day you’ll get a big hit.”

Zaire’s forehead crinkled in confusion, “How do you know I am a writer?”

Josef smiled, “If I didn’t know things like that, I wouldn’t be who I am.  There are reasons why I am who I am and why I do what I do.”

“Not to sound like an idiot, but why do you do what you do, that makes you who you are?”

“Power, my dear Zaire.  Don’t you wish you had power and authority in life?”

Zaire chuckled, “I just wish I had the power to control my own destiny.  Control when I die and how.  Not like this.”

“She apparently didn’t know you too well, Zaire, when she chose you to do this.”

“Why do you say that?”

Josef stood up and waved his hands in the air, “I’m still standing here in one piece without any wounds.”


“Don’t you see Zaire, you’re the only person who has had the nerve to just walk up to my front door and ring the doorbell.  I could have killed you in that moment but instead I wanted to bring you in.”  He smiled, “Get to know you a little bit better.”

“Before you kill me?”

Josef laughed, “Who said anything about me killing you, not everyone is obsessed with killing.  Just because I’m her Uncle doesn’t mean I’m anything like Quinn, or she’s anything like me.  You see, Zaire, the biggest difference between her and me is that I have accepted what I want in life and I’ll tell people.  She, on the other hand, won’t admit that the reason she wants me gone, is not because she’s afraid of what I may or may not do, but because she wants to be me.”

Zaire scratched his nose with the back of his hand.  “I’m not sure I’m following.  She wants to be a dictator?”

“You cannot honestly be that stupid.  She has poisoned many people in hopes that they’ll do her dirty work and come after me because, why?  You all think she has the cure for the disease that she has infected you with.  No, Zaire, open your eyes.  She doesn’t have the cure, that’s why all those men and women are still sick and dying.”

“Then why am I here?”

“You are doing her dirty work.”

“So, no matter what I do, I’m destined to die?”

Josef shrugged, “Zaire, my dear boy, I wish I had better news.  But she is the one that infected you all, and I’m pretty sure she is the only one who can – uninfected all of you.”

Zaire has heard many people say sometimes one plus one doesn’t equal two, but until now he never really understood the saying.  How can someone murder so many people just to find someone that will murder her Uncle?  If she really wanted to be him, and have everything he has – then why doesn’t she just do it herself?

“You’re trying to figure out why she won’t do it herself, aren’t you?”

Zaire blinked, “I guess I just don’t understand why she needs lackeys if she is the one that is going to reap the rewards.”

“But that’s just it, Zaire, she isn’t going to reap any rewards.  She is going to get nothing.  When I die, my estate, money, and anything else that belongs to me will be given away.  Sold to the highest buyer – she will get nothing.”

Zaire sat down, but more in a falling fashion on a large chair.  He sighed and looked at Josef who was lighting up another cigarette, “So, what now?  What do I do?  Leave here and die?”

Josef inhaled his cigarette before putting it out in his ashtray.  “I wish I could help you more than I have, but sadly Zaire, I cannot.  I will say this, if her compound is still full of people, then she isn’t going to kill you herself.”

Zaire felt deflated and placed his face into his palms.  His mind raced – another mental note for himself, don’t go on adventures with complete strangers.

Josef stood up, “You know, Zaire, you could probably just help yourself.”

“What do you mean?”  His voice cracked.

“All you have to do is find the cure.  I’m pretty sure, since she spends so much time in that compound, the cure is in it – if there is one.  Don’t let me get your hopes up, she may not actually have it.  But if she does, you can probably find it yourself before she ever figured out what you were up to.”

“How?  She has it guarded like no other.  Sometimes I feel like I’m living in a prison but guarded better.  How am I supposed to snoop around if I can’t leave my room?”

Josef smiled, “I guess that’s something you’ll have to figure out.”

Zaire stood up and threw his arms up in the air.  “It isn’t going to matter anyway!  It’s not like she isn’t going to kill me when I return.”

“Then don’t return.  If I’m still alive, that means you failed, and probably means you’re dead.  Zaire – be dead.  Go get your cure and live your life.  Write that book that is inside of you, publish it and please, when it happens, send me a signed copy.”

Zaire didn’t move for a couple minutes as he watched Josef exit the room, almost floating out; way too perfect to be human.  He thought about what he was told and wondered if it was possible. Could he possibly fake his own death and no one realize it?  Could he sneak into that building and snoop around without Quinn ever finding out?  The biggest question he had, of course, does she actually have the cure stored inside of that building and could he figure out how to replicate it and save all of those people?

He shrugged before letting himself out.

What’s the worst thing that can happen?

Am I a Cliché?

I’ve been feeling weird the last few months.  && the one thing that has plagued my mind the most is whether or not I’m just an average cliché or not.  I know it’s silly to think of yourself like but it’s there.  Floating around in my brain.

Since I was about eighteen I have been trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life.  What is it that I WANT to be – to do.  I can always remember being younger and wanting to be in the medical field, help people – but once I lost my mother my mood shifted and I didn’t want to deal with the pain of telling their loved ones that I lost their person.  So I’ve been trying to figure it out ever since.

But now I feel as if I may just be another cliché.

I can always remember having the love for writing – which isn’t a big secret if you know me.  I remember writing my very first poem in school then spending years writing poems (I no longer have any of them, which is probably a good thing) before I slowly moved into writing short stories and then began my first novel.

But why is that making me feel like I do?

I’ve noticed lately that EVERYONE is a writer.  If they don’t have a career path, any idea what they want out of life, or are stay-at-home mom’s – they are automatically a writer.  They keep blogs, posting daily, write stories that they share with people, and self-publish novels that they write in about a week.

If they are not “writers” they are ‘chefs’ or ‘photographers’.  *SIDE NOTE: I’m not bashing writers, chefs or photographers &&& you’ll see why as you read on.*

My second love is cooking and secretly, deep down inside, I would love to open a restaurant.  Third love – photography.  I even bought an EOS Rebel 35 MM camera when I was eighteen thinking that I will become a photographer.  I even looked into photography schools to learn how to be better and develop film myself.

But just like when it comes to ‘writers’, a lot of people say they are photographer or chefs because they don’t know what to do with their lives.  When I was looking into the photography idea I noticed just how many people do that themselves and I thought ‘if everyone is a photographer then what am I doing?  I cannot compete with the whole state of Oklahoma.”  (I’ll always have a soft spot for photography and any chance I get I take pictures for people.)  But unfortunately, most of the people in my life call the other “photographers” around to do their photos.  Or… they use their phone and take their own.  That’s fine, whatever.

But am I just like the rest of people trying to do something with my life that EVERYONE seems to be doing?  I will always have a love for writing, but am I being ridiculous in thinking that I will be published?

I just turned 30.  I am 30 years old.  I feel like I haven’t accomplished anything in my life.  Sitting here thinking about my writing and I realize that I have never finished a full story.  Even Frost, the novel I’ve been working on since November of 2012 – I’m still not finished with it.  I actually decided to “rewrite” it.  Now I’m sitting here with a half finished novel and I honestly think it’s complete crap.  I wonder sometimes if that’s why I haven’t finished it.  I even try to tell myself that Stephen King threw away Carrie – he hated that story.  Threw it in the trash.

When it comes to cooking I’m perfectly find just cooking with the family or for them and friends.  I can live my life doing that.  It’s fine.  One day I might open a restaurant, but I won’t be bummed if I never open one.

Photography is a very slow dying out occupation because of cell phone cameras and small pocket sized digital cameras.  Why pay someone to do something your sister can do?

Writing.  I have had a love for that since I was ten or eleven.  (No, I didn’t start writing when I was four – that’s dumb.)  In 2012 I told myself I’d be finished and published by 30 – but here I am.  With neither crossed off my list.

I guess what I’m trying to figure out is what do I want to be doing for the rest of my life?  I know for a fact that it’s not my job right now.  I do NOT want to make it a career because I barely like it.  (No offense to the job itself.)  Honestly, I know the answer, but does it make me a cliché knowing that I don’t like my job, don’t really have any future plans but I want to be a published author?

Dear Diary – Every Day’s A Struggle,

I feel like I’m going backwards.  The week of pay day is always a little harder than every other day.  Know what I mean?

I get paid Friday (every two weeks) so I can restock my goodies.  But Christmas is coming up and I am going to eventually start feeling bad about buying stuff for myself.  This is my yearly dilemma.  Sometimes I wonder if this is half the reason I cannot keep up with weight loss.  Do it for so long, thinking about no one but myself, and then I realize that I’m thinking about no one but myself.

I start feeling bad.

I have been eating left overs for the last couple of days.  I know it’s silly to really think about it, but I typically leave all of my calories for the evening.  Which is said to not do so, but I do.

Everyone does something they shouldn’t do.  That’s mine.  (Breakfast has never been my friend.  But that’s for another day.)  But I feel as if I have been eating way too many calories.  I still walk, every day, for at least thirty minutes (which is approximately a mile for me, I’m slow), so I’m still doing my thing.  But how well is it if you eat 5,000 calories a day and only burn 200?  (I don’t eat 5,000 calories a day, maybe 2,000 to the most) – but either way it’s still not good.

I’m rambling.

What I’m saying – is that I have had a rough few days.  Maybe it isn’t rough.  Maybe it’s not as many calories as I think.  Maybe – just maybe – I haven’t put back on my 13 pounds.

That would be nice.


13 Down – 30 More To Go.

I made myself a small goal.  Nothing huge.  Mostly because I need goals to be reachable.  If I give myself a huge goal, I will never actually achieve it.  Then I’m miserable for months because I didn’t do it.

So months ago I gave myself a goal of pulling off 42 pounds.  Basically.  So I began my weight loss journey.  It started out very slowly because I couldn’t grasp what I really needed to do to get on my way.  But I think I basically have my footing – other than breakfast.  (I am having issues finding something that fills me up longer than an hour.  But I will.)

But whatever I am doing, seems to be working.  I basically started this round September 2nd – exercising, eating smaller portions, etc.  Basically everything people tell you to do.  OH!  &&& I have basically given up soda and drink mostly water.  Like… a lot of water.

I had a work biometric a couple weeks ago and I was almost derailed.  Why?  Because their scale said two pounds.  Two.  Pounds.  Which is harsh to see when you feel like you’re doing great.  But then I decided that their scale isn’t the scale I’ve been using so I decided against going with it.  Had a doctors appointment today and was weighed.

Thirteen pounds difference.

That makes it all much better.  That makes me feel better.  Much better.  Knowing that I am, in fact, pulling the weight off – it makes everything feel fantastic.

Right now my work pants are falling off.  A shirt I bought a few years ago that was tight is not anymore.  So basically I’m just going to keep going.  I Have pants and shirts and bras in my closet that are too small that I really want to get into.

So – I have more work to do.

Dear Diary : #1

I don’t know what happened to me.  I used to be the epitome of writing.  Wrote constantly.  Anything && everything I could.  But now – not so much.  I know I complain about writing a lot, but I promise this isn’t going to be thirty-three paragraphs about how I just can’t seem to write anymore.

Nope.  Not in the least.

Today’s Complaint = I am in a reading rut!

(This also won’t be a thirty-two paragraph rant, either.)

I have tried a few different styles && a part of me thinks that is what may actually have put me in the rut.  Sadly, I LOVE romance novels.  Always have.  The idea that someone could have the perfect relationship – the kind they want, anyway – makes me happy.  Even if it’s between two fake people with fake families and fake friends.  The thoughts came from a real person.  So it counts somewhere.

Me?  I love reading romance, any kinds.  I love writing romance – all kinds.  (No “smut”, though, I can’t seem to get through that without laughing at myself.)  So no worries about getting the next 50 Shades of Grey.

Romance is my thing – has been since I could remember.  I love every aspect of a good romance novel.  But I like taking a romance novel and putting a horrible twist to it, so when the love reunites it’s even stronger than it ever was.

So I started my novel.  I figured I could do whatever I wanted and put the characters through what I choose fitting.  So November of 2012 I began my novel (“Frost”).  Oh, boy, was I excited.  The excitement is still there it’s just a tad burned out.  Not because I don’t want to finish it, I do!  Oh trust me, I want to finish it.  But I guess my goals just didn’t add up and now I’m a little on the sad part.

What goals?

I decided, when I began writing again (around nineteen), that I wanted to be published by 30.  That seems like a good amount of years to write a novel, send out manuscripts, and get someone to fall in love with my story.

The problem?

I’m a little under two months away from joining the 30’s Club &&& I still haven’t finished the novel.  Yeah, no reason to reread that line – you read it correctly.  I have been working on the novel for five years and I am still not finished.

Well, I have technically finished.  I have been working on the corrections since 2015 when I finished the rough draft.   But nope… still haven’t finished.  So I made myself a new goal, that I am trying my hardest to keep – but I have moments where I can’t seem to keep my attention long enough to correct it.

I want to finish it completely by my 30th birthday.  However, I honestly don’t see it happening, not because I don’t want to, but because it’s less than two months away and I’m still correcting chapter 11 out of… 24?

Am I up to twenty-three paragraphs yet?

I have faith, though, lots &&& lots of faith that I will finish the novel.  When?  I’m not 100% sure, but I know I will.  Getting it published may be a different story.  (Most companies, now, don’t take unsolicited manuscripts anymore.)


I’ll stop complaining now and go back to watching “Vampire Dairies” &&& playing Fallout Shelter on the PC.  Yes, I do realize I should be editing (which is why most people know me as a procrastinator) but I’m not.

Go figure.