One perfect life.
Two uniformed officers.
Three acts of betrayal.
Four beats of a heart.
Five words that destroy her.
Once upon a time, Tessa Salinger had it all.
She discovered the fairy tale was nothing more than an extravagant lie dressed up in lavish clothes.
In reality…Cinderella falls.
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Over the last two weeks, I’ve had the incredible opportunity to meet some amazing people in the book community. Fellow authors, bloggers and awesome event coordinators. I unleashed my inner fangirl over my readers. It was almost embarrassing. I had to remind myself to breathe.
A lovely woman by the name of Melissa, bought my book from Amazon and actually brought it to an author event for me to sign. It was such a surreal moment for me. She was a total stranger. We don’t share DNA and we weren’t childhood friends. And she bought my book. I tried to keep the crazy excitement in check. I’m sure I failed miserably.
I found myself asking the readers for pictures and I’ve had to pinch myself more than once over the last two weeks. So thank you to everyone who showed up to support me, especially my tribe. Thank you for giving me incredible memories and for reading my words. I’m blown away. Here are a few of the highlights.
There are days my mind is an incessant whir of voices. Characters rise from the chaos, demanding their stories be told. I create and layer these wondrous figments of my imagination. I plot, outline chapters, and hope like hell that somehow when I’m done, I’ll have written a story someone will want to read. Preferably, someone who isn’t tied to me by marriage or DNA.
I delete twenty words for every ten I keep.
I delete twenty words for every two that make the cut. I struggle with verbiage and question the use of the word ‘that’ every time I type it. Blank pages are both magical and terrifying.
I toil away constructing the perfect sentence. With every story a piece of my heart bleeds out across the pages; keystrokes being my weapon of choice. Commas confuse me, so I sprinkle them everywhere like confetti. I labor over eighty thousand words, the way a mother labors over her child. When I push publish, it feels as though I’m walking into the middle of a crowed stadium without a stitch of clothing to hide my naked soul.
Writing is scary. But not writing…is unimaginable. I don’t worry over the voices in my head. I’m fearful of the day they’ll cease to exist.
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