One night, this is the greatest novel ever. It’s so unique. Everyone will love it. The next, my writing is crap. Maybe I should just shelf this P.O.S.

Ah, the joys of writing and really learning that it is, in fact, hard work. I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but I never understood how hard it would be. This is my first finished MS. First as in first finished rough draft. The first thing I’ve ever edited and now I know why I avoided. I know, I know, the more I write and edit, the better I will get. It’s still hard. It’s hard looking at the writing and thinking,”Wow, this is really AVERAGE,” when you’re a perfectionist expecting extraordinary.

Then my girls make me laugh or smile and I wonder if maybe it all makes up for it. Those hidden gems that you hope readers will latch onto. Besides, once I get all the plot holes filled, I can nitpick to get exactly the right words. Right?

So even though it’s not perfect (and likely never will be), it’s original and it’s mine. My creepy circus. My spunky 15 year old girls. My dual POV Frankenstein. Mine. And because I had a moment the other night, I think I might put a little excerpt up. It may or may not make it to the finals, but who knows?

Everything about this thing is becoming worse the deeper in I get. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to get over the circus when everything is done or will it stick with me, too? I pull Ella’s barrette out of my pocket where it’s been tucked away. This was in her hair just days ago. The last thing to touch her. My last connection with her. The purple flower looks so innocent. I only want to put it back where it belongs.