Available June 15, 2015

"Dr. McFarland told us we were the only ones who could cure the unfortunates under our care. Our benevolent kindness would lead them to sanity. At first I believed him, but it was not long before I learned of unspeakable acts committed on those lost souls."
For Their Own Good
For Their Own Good

Available June 15, 2015 at
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Partners in My Head

There are three girls living in my head. Some say they aren’t real. But I believe in them. They are young, chatty, and usually dress like characters in my latest work. Today they wear white dresses with blue ribbons in their hair, as if they are daughters of the 19th century women in my novel-in-progress, For Their Own Good.

It didn’t take me long to realize the girls give me great writing ideas, but they never complete anything. They might lead me by the nose a little, writing a few paragraphs now and then. The rest is up to me.

The nature of our relationship became painfully obvious when I woke up one sun-drenched morning with the beginning of a short story ready to put down on paper. The words were gifts from the girls. I completed the story in record time. I felt like the Mozart of writing. (He seldom changed a thing on the first drafts of his music.)

That star-studded night, I floated in the knowledge I would soon be recognized as America’s greatest writer. I would not have to bother with re-writes, indifferent publishers, or poor book sales.

The next day the sky was gray—a perfect time to take a look at the story, just to make sure there were no typos. I sipped coffee and began to read my masterpiece. The same plot was there, but I was stunned to find serious flaws in the characters, the setting, and the dialogue.

My girls had failed me. I no longer felt like Mozart. More likely, I would be the Van Gogh of the 21st century. What if I didn’t publish one book before I died? Didn’t Van Gogh’s brother buy the only painting of Vincent’s sold before his death? Would my sister do the same for me?

I began to re-write the story. I lost count after about the tenth draft, but I have this compulsion to be the best writer I can be, so I kept going.

The compulsion remains, but now I know what the girls will do and what they won’t. They inspire, they give me faith that an idea will come when I haven’t a clue what the next story will be, and they teach me to be open and wait.

And while I’m waiting, I’d better be working on the draft of something I know isn’t quite right yet—because re-writing is my job. The girls don’t do it.

Bradette

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