The Hell With It

Still feel rough, this thing just doesn't want to let me go . . . Dottie either . . . It's like rolling dice and everything comes up snake-eyes. Still I've decided to go to the library-sponsored "Authors Appreciation Day" regardless. It might even do me good and hopefully I'll sell a book or two or three. I could use the money. Got a check in the mail yesterday which was payment for Write To Murder from a woman in Mississippi who found me on Myspace. She even overpaid, that was nice of Sandra.

Although I felt very bad yesterday I did manage to go through my notes I've accumulated on Misdemeanors & Felonies and pulled all the ones which pertain to my formative years in Arkansas. At least now I have some sense of which direction my next few chapters will be going in. And I have to pretty much follow the notes and not allow myself to become distracted to the point that I wander off into things which are figments of my imagination. I do that a lot in fiction, but I can't allow that to take place in this personal and accurate writing I am involved in.

I keep thinking that this part, the young years of moi is going to be the worst. I guess I am hoping it will, but even as I say that I know the truth, that everything is going to be hard to put down, knowing people will be reading it and judging my words. Especially my children. Do I want my children to come away from this tome with good feelings about me? Yes, I do. Will I shade what has happened to me, or things I have done? No I will not do that. Am I writing the book so that they can look upon me with feelings not borne out of hate or even worse, apathy? Of course I am. But I cannot paint a picture of me which is not real, otherwise Misdemeanors & Felonies will be a colossal failure and that would almost kill me. But yeah, I can hope my words will give them another look at the man who deserted them.

Deserted them. That is a word I have lived with for these many, many years. It is a hard one to digest. Whether or not I was the one who did the actually leaving, I was responsible for it. And I did not fight to get them back. THAT, to me, is the worse sin, the sin of omission. I sit here and analyze all I want to about what was going on inside me during those times, but the fact was, at that point in time, I leaned toward excitement in the form of what was sweeping the country to that of being married with children. Saying it like that, in print, pains me so that I want to delete those few words, fearing Patricia will read them and think terrible things about me. But if I can't make a true statement about how I was in those days here, in this blog/diary/whatever, how in the hell will I be able to put everything relevant down in the book? So the words shall remain. Patricia is the only one who is reading my words, at least she told me she reads it on a daily basis. I hope so. It makes me feel more connected to her if she is, in fact reading this.

Gotta go . . . Tomorrow . . .

MY NOVELS:

Write To Murder . . . http://www.lulu.com/content/956621

Margaret and David: A Love Story . . . http://www.lulu.com/content/1072842

My Mother's Revenge . . . http://www.lulu.com/content/1132742