“Wishes aren’t that easy. No. They’re filled with pain and strife.
Real wishes have to be that. Or we’d wish away our life.”
When the Snake first said that to Abby in my 2nd middle grade novel, I hated him. Because I wanted life to be easier for her.
And because he was right.
I think of his words every time I'm stuck in a rewrite that’s going nowhere. Every time I receive another rejection letter from an agent or publisher. Every time another military move forces me to say goodbye to my friends, reminding me I’m an isolated writer in a foreign country… again.
Sometimes his words motivated me. Teach another writing workshop in the school. Seek out another critique group. Start a picture book… new play… YA novel. Scoop up letters, pour them into words and make nowhere become somewhere.
Other times his words made me wonder if I was wishing away my life.
So I make a choice every day. I sit at my computer, snap open the lid, and decide if I’m going to be a writer. And every day I resolve that, even if I am wishing away my life, I would rather be doing it by crafting stories than anything else.
I'm not naive enough to believe that, out of the millions of books, I'll write a story that no one has written before. But I am hopeful enough to believe no one has written it like me.
So I wish.