Grey January skies bustle around The Garret. Damp and salty wind agitates bare-branched trees. The sea tumbles the shingle in one long rush of foam. Winter here is a time for wrapping up warm and pondering . . .
I have been doing a fair bit of thinking. The death of my adoptive mother in September gave me that gift, another to add to the Litany. I have reconsidered my reasons for writing – or rather, why the desperate need to be published.
One fundamental desire has not changed: I still want to create stories that delight, intrigue or move. A tale has no independent existence until someone else reads it. My Beloved Readers are essential – breathers of life into the words that I offer them.
After ten years of striving towards publication, I have learnt several truths. One is that I can write. Another is that good writing by itself is no guarantee of commercial success. I do not know how to express this without sounding bitter, which I try hard not to be. A third is that my fellow writers are by-and-large a grand crowd, and I wish them nothing but success.(If nothing else, I get fabulous books to read and review.)
Grief, like snow, simplifies. Mourning my adoptive mother and our difficult relationship, has clarified one drive. From being a little girl, I had wanted to win her approval. She admired proper authors, and always encouraged me to read. To have my name on a spine was a small Everest for me. Now she has gone, it is more like Shangri-La.
So I am taking a new path. I am asking my friends and Beloved Readers to contribute to my tiny venture into micro-publishing. If my words have ever delighted, intrigued or moved you, please tell other people about The Garret. Some glorious souls have already begun to fund my first project – a tiny booklet with an original Tale from the Garret for subscribers. My gratitude coils warm and astonished around my heart, hoping for more support.
Yet most of all I yearn for more readers. Every retweet, every share, is an encouraging smile along the way.