I'm currently finishing off my latest novel. I can't remember what number it is. Crazy, huh? But I'm approaching 40 novels written. I've only had close to ten published, so I've scrapped a lot. That's okay. This one won't be scrapped. Tweaked and edited and cut and tightened, yes. But it's pretty good. 

What's it about? Well, let's see. It's about a bestselling writer. It's about dealing with grief. It's about being haunted. It's about having writer's block. It's about living in Geneva. It's about where one gets their inspiration from. It's about fear. And it's about faith in something other than this wonderful, dreadful world. 

This weekend I'll hopefully finish it in a mad dash. I'm really liking how certain threads are tied together, how certain storylines played out. There are unexpected things that when I started writing the book, I didn't even consider. That's the beautiful thing about writing. 

It's been an interesting time to write. This "season of life" (a term that makes me gag, so pardon my use of it) is interesting. Life is interesting. And I constantly remind myself that the journey is everything. Because it is. What I'm doing now and what I'll be doing tomorrow and the next day--it's about the journey. Life is short and "I don't want to be a soldier who the captain of some sinking ship would stow, far below." 

I'd rather have my little canoe, thank you very much.