I should be dusting

It’s Saturday.  Cleaning day.  I should be doing laundry between sweeping and dusting.  Instead, I’m sitting in front of my computer.  Why?  I didn’t get my full ration of hitting the keys yesterday or the day before.  And I feel edgy without my usual “fix.”   I did finish reading a book, Faith Hunter’s Skinwalker, which was awesome.  Maybe that’s why I’m holed up in my office, forming words into sentences.  To reassure myself.  When I read a really good writer–and I have many I admire–they often make me feel unworthy.  I ask myself, “Why can’t I create a kick-ass heroine like Jane Yellowrock?”  “Why can’t I submerge a reader in the poignancy of Mercy Thompson and her friends–(in Patricia Briggs’ urban fantasy series)?”  When my friend and I flew to San Diego to hear Elizabeth George, (we’re both huge fans), I felt like bowing and proclaiming, “I am not worthy, I am not worthy.”  But the truth is, I wouldn’t want Sharon Ashwood to write like Alice Hoffman, or for Nancy Pickard to write like Martha Grimes.  I like my favorite authors because they’re each unique.  When I pick up their books, I have certain expectations about voice and style.  I like them because they’re them.  And that’s the only thing that each writer can bring to his books or stories.  His own voice and vision.  So even though I admire a long list of authors, and I can learn from them, I still have to be true to myself.  We each do.

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