Heptadecagon

If anyone had filled me in back in 2012 and told me how difficult and time consuming it would be to try and publish a novel, I don't think I would have believed them. But now, here we are past the middle of 2016 and I'm working on revising a novel I started on Father's Day of 2012. I remember the exact day because the inciting incident of this particular novel actually stems from an encounter I had that weekend. I drove home from the grocery store, a story brewing in my head, and furiously pounded out a few sentences. For months I went back and added a few notes here and there, and then, sat back to let the story percolate. During that time, I wrote and revised a second novel, and finished up a third book that, to this day, has been spending time on my bookshelf, collecting dust. The Father's Day novel, though, is special. It's been read by a published author, who gave loads of valuable feedback. It's been workshopped by my writing group partners, who gave e...

Here we are--December 1, 2015--and NaNoWriMo is ( finally ) over (as of 11:59 last night). Although I finished my 50,000 words two weeks ago, that month was the longest 30 days of my life. I'm not kidding. Even after reaching the 50,000 word mark, I couldn't walk away from the novel (I ended the month at 61,823 words). I felt like I had to write at least a few more words for the book each day to help with our regional word count. Really? Why did I feel so obligated? I have never even met most of the other people in my region. And hadn't I already done my part for the Dayton region? ( Yes . The short answer is yes. The long answer involves my OCD tendencies and is, as always, the subject for another post.) While I had plans to write a wonderful "I'm back" sort of post today, or maybe even share a scene from The Chocolate Garden , I realized that I needed to make sure that everyone out there who might be reading this--that means all five of you--understands e...

A revised version of this original post can be found here: https://writerrsj.com/2020/10/29/guest-post-christina-consolino-you-can-do-it-duffy-moon/

Four months ago today was the last time I strapped on my running shoes. Four months. That means, I haven't felt the wind in my hair or the beads of sweat on my back since August 2. Since the drops of sun rained down and the grass laid on the ground like a carpet of green velvet. Since the blue sky above me and the humid air hugged me with their comforting arms. Four months. One hundred twenty-two days. One-third of a year. I thought when I first considered a running hiatus that I'd never make it through whatever magical number of days it took for me to heal. That I'd pull my hair out and morph into a crabby witch of a person and most people who called themselves my friends would claim to no longer know me. Shoot, I thought my family would no longer want to admit they were mine, although they'd be forced to suffer through living with a new, non-running me. I've always held to the belief that running serves as therapy for me, and that the action itself combats my ge...

I turned 41 yesterday. I'm keeping that sentence short because really, knowing that I've been on this earth for that long simply blows my mind. I had a chance yesterday to reflect on some of those years I've lived, and thankfully, my trip down memory lane produced mostly good thoughts, positive memories that reminded me how grateful I am to be alive. But on our birthday, of all days, we expect sunshine and happiness and flowers and smiles. Maybe it's how our society is structured. I mean, usually, it's not all about us, as individuals, but a birthday is different. A birthday is the one day that we're allowed to bask in ourselves, so I don't think it's too much to ask for a few hours of joy. So when I woke up to thunderstorms, I wondered how the day would go. And when I realized that my usual two requests for my birthday--to go for a run and to have someone else make dinner--would have to go unheeded, I really wondered how the day would go. (Just as a...