I don’t know.

It’s not a secret. It’s never been a secret. I have two loves. Inanimate loves. We all know what they are. I haven’t spoken about anything else since I started this.

I still pay for this blog. I don’t write as much as I wish. I don’t write daily. Weekly. Monthly. I think about it. I will start a blog. Then save the draft. Then a year later, delete the draft. I probably have three or so right now. That have yet to be deleted.

The point?

Everyone knows I wrote a book. Frost. Took way too many years to write. Still not finished. I need it edited. I think it’s crap.

You know, Stephen King thought Carrie was crap. Even threw it away. Straight into the trash. His wife dug it out. Told him to publish it. But he had tried, multiple times, to publish short stories. I don’t know, maybe around that time he had.

I’ve never been published.

I did a thing once. Last year. Wrote poetry for a company that said they’d publish the poems into a book. Yes. Even I can be retarded. It’s been a year. Almost. Nothing. It’s okay, tho.

I wrote chapter one to my second book. The follow up to Frost. I plan to call it Frosted, if I ever write the whole book. Tonight tho, I wrote chapter one. It’s in a notebook. Will I keep it as is? I don’t know.

I don’t know where I’m going with the second book. I just know I left book one open. Could I never write another one and be on my way? Probably. No one has read it. No one really cares that I wrote it.

Except me.

I want to publish it. For myself, I think. Do I think I’ll make a million dollars and be able to write full time? Absolutely not.

If I publish Frost, it will be for me. Only me. Something that I did for myself.

But first, I have to have someone edit it.

I guess I lied. Someone has read it. Someone that said they’d edit it. Someone that is busy with their own life. Someone who can’t drop everything and do something like that for free. I get it. I won’t even say that I’m on the back burner again. Because I’m not. She’s just busy. People are busy.

Sometimes I’m busy.

But if I want something to happen for myself – I need to do it.

I know my writing issues. Maybe I can figure it out myself.

I’m scared tho. What if I take the time, publish it, then someone reads it and tells me that it’s horribly written. The story is okay, but it’s written horribly.

Then what?

Just because I can sometimes write a blog entry, doesn’t mean I can write. At the same time, how will I ever know if I can’t let someone read my writing.

She has read it. She told me she read it. Said the story is good. ++++ But, at the same time, she can see my errors. The errors I know I have. I just need help. But I can’t afford editors who do it for a living. I priced one once. Two cents per word. Doesn’t sound like a lot. But multiply $0.02 by 100,000 – then come at me again.

She is an old high school English teacher. I know she has the credentials. But at the same time, I can’t hurry her up when I am not paying her. She doesn’t want money, either. Just wants acknowledgement. That I can do.

But here I am. Still sulking. With chapter one written for book two.