Plodding On

Writing my memoirs has been a plodding process. Write a little. Pause a lot. Venture forward again. It's been like sticking my toe in the waters first and, if it's not too cold, putting my foot in up to my ankle. Then my knee. Then slipping in the mud and becoming completely submerged.

Then another try before my Critic starts in. . .

YIKES! Where the heck are you? What the heck do you think you're doing?

And the inevitable. . .

Haven't you considered who might get hold of this and actually read it?

My response is usually. .

My writing circle is blissfully non-threatening. Like being in a protective hothouse where I can try out my wings. Actually fly at times. It makes me believe it's possible that I might share

what I've wanted to for so long.

In the meantime, I hope to continue wading. . flying. . moving through the density of my story. I haven't yet reached the "juicy" part. And whatever my Critic thinks when I do, will

have to wait I while plod on. . . sticking one toe at a time in and wading deeper.

Eventually I'll arrive and be relieved when I do.