This is the tale of my journey as a writer alone in rural Pennsylvania. That journey started many years ago, but was interrupted by a seven year silence in which the words would not come (life took an interesting detour). The words are back, and I’m starting over – wondering if I’ve got the chops to find my work in print again, and if I can finish my novel.
Of course, I’m not really alone. I’ve got a great husband and cadre of friends. I belong to a supportive writers’ group. But writing is essentially a lonely pursuit, and living in farm country often leads to my feeling left out of the literary loop. I sit in my quiet farmhouse with my two cats, pecking away at stories, wondering if there is anybody out there to read them or to care. Typical stuff, really. I’m no different from thousands of other hopeful writers who battle their inner critics.
So, this story begins, “One day, she took up her pen again…”