I'm so tired. The winter came on strong and reminded me that there's a long haul before the sun dapples down from green leaves again. I'm all of a sudden very, very, cold.
The writing world is strange and hard and complicated and simple. And sad.
I held Blue Diary, a signed copy, in my hand for three days and felt the pages and smelled the binding and cried at Hoffman's words. Her stories. The stories that line every good dress I own.
Will my book ever be in her hands? It's a not- so- secret dream of mine. For Alice Hoffman to read my words. The words she shaped in so many different ways. It's good to hold onto dreams.
And hard. They're slippery, and slivery, and sometimes they make calluses too.
Words words words. I love you.
Here: Read Blue Diary