For no reason particular reason, my husband and I started watching old JK Rowling interviews. Years ago, when only three Harry Potter existed, a friend lent them to me. “Read these,” she said. “You’ll love them.”

I read all three in one weekend. Those were days when I could spend an entire weekend on the sofa reading.

The more I learned about Rowling, the more I liked her. Her mother had died, and so had mine. She always wanted to be a writer, and so had I. She said she thought a lot about death, and so have I.

But I can’t write anything like a seven book epic. That’s not me.

I have a story I hope to make into a series. I call it my sci-fi fairy tale. It started as an idea to write a character like the Doctor in Doctor Who, but to have the Doctor-esque character be a woman. Well, in the writing, the character became very different. She’s nothing like the Doctor.

I love writing. I love rewriting. I love the abundance of characters and ideas, scenes and words that fill my head. It’s non-stop. I hate the doubt and the wondering if anyone else will care. Part of me thinks it shouldn’t matter. But for most of me it does.

Is what’s on the page match what’s in my head? Almost never.

Yesterday, I finished the book Radiance by Catherynne M. Valente. She also wrote the series of The Girl Who Circumnavigated the Fairland in a Ship of Her Own Making. I am blown away by her talent for description. Her brain must be coated in velvet and saturated in rainbows. I couldn’t paint a world like she does if my life depended on it. But she’s inspiring nonetheless.

Well, I’ll work on my novel and write the way I write.

Thanks for reading.