I dedicate this blog to the most important people in my world; my readers. An elite special group, to be sure; YOU, as of this instant, are one of us. I say “us,” because, I’ll admit, I like to read my own writing. I’m one of my favorite writers, and my own most dependable reader. This common conceit is a deep dark secret that most writers would probably rather keep to themselves. Recently, a writer friend admitted that after writing a well-crafted email to someone, it was hard to resist re-reading it a dozen more times over the next few days. My non-writing mother, overhearing this confession, was a bit shocked by such narcissism, but I was relieved to discover that this particular lifelong obsession of admiring my own little word arrangements isn’t my own private neurosis.
Lately, thanks to you, my dear readers, I’ve moved beyond self-satisfaction and the joy of writing into deeper waters. Knowing that others are reading this and appreciating my work is gratifying. Some of you respond or comment. Others are simply ticks on the Word-Press stats. But I know you’re there, that I’m not alone. This is a huge comfort, a reason to keep on. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Some of you, you know who you are, have gone even further than reading Riverchild blogs.
Precious, among these best readers, are my writing critique partners. You, dear honest smart writers, are priceless. You say “What?” You say “Who’s who here?” and “Give us more! Slow this part down, speed that up.” Readers of works-in-progress are brave angels.
Others, my true heroes, have read whole novels, sometimes in more than one incarnation. I have dozens of wonderful near, dear, and distant readers in this group, ranging from my loyal admiring sisters (who had no choice) to the anonymous judges at Chanticleer Reviews who gave a Blue Ribbon to my Rain Shine Secrets manuscript. I’ve blundered painfully at times, pushing galleys upon friends who weren’t really interested; I’m grateful to those dear folks for persevering to the end, and ultimately, for the valuable lesson of their responses. Silence is a deafening review.
Some readers of this blog have already read my latest work, “a long story,” about a widow’s sexual awakening. “Oh, Honeys!” means something to you, the readers of Oh, Henry! Collectively, you said this story was delicious, delightful, brilliant, original, fun to read. A quick treat, honest, well-written. You loved it! Swimming in such sweet praise, I’m more than not alone; I am loved! Meanwhile, my best reader, myself, insists upon some writer-critique inspired editing before releasing this story into some final published form, probably on this website, or maybe via the commercial Amazon jungle, where somehow strangers will pay to read it, before they know whether they like it or not! How strange. Private long time Honeys (you know who you are), if you want to read it, for free, now, contact me. I will send it to YOU, with love.