Have you ever had that experience where you’re walking through a field of lavender, your hands brushing the purple flower heads, the sun nearing the horizon as you think of a strikingly handsome man with eyes only for you? No? Me either. Yet we’ve all seen a dreamy version of this image on the covers of romance novels, mostly set in previous centuries when it was okay to traipse through someone’s flower field because it was owned by the duke who was trying to seduce you. Today, as I imagine myself meandering through a lavender field, I see a French farmer walking steadfastly toward me . . . with a shotgun. He’s no duke, and it seems he plans to give “trespassing-me” the same treatment as the bunny rabbits in his lettuce patch.

What does all of this have to do with my writing? Am I about to announce the pending release of a historical novel set in Provence with a sexy, weapon-bearing, French farmer? No. Sorry. This post is about another type of apology.

When bloggers I follow haven’t posted in a while, they start off with apologies like these: 

“I’m sorry to leave you hanging.” 

“So sorry for my absence . . .”

“I know it’s been a while, but here’s what I’ve been up to!”

Well, I’m not sure any of these statements can cover the three years, two months, and eleven days since my last post on my author blog, but let me tackle the apologies list anyway.

I’m sorry to leave you hanging. Though my ego would like to think otherwise, I doubt you’ve been waiting with bated breath for my next blog post or for the announcement of my next novel. And, as there are more blogs and novels in circulation today than ever before in human history, I couldn’t have left you hanging. You’re busy with other things! 

So sorry for my absence. Yes, but only because I regret that I’ve disconnected with you as a follower of my work. For that I bid my excuses. 

Here’s what I’ve been up to. This is where one should present an upbeat list of fabulous accomplishments accompanied by an energetic promise of great things to come. Yet let’s traipse a little longer through the lavender as a means of explaining what I’ve been up to.

In my situation, the French farmer has multiple roles:

• The French farmer has no reason to enter the field. 
  If there are no rabbits playing in the lettuce patch, and no heroine walking through the field, then the farmer has no reason to enter said field. In other words, although I have started three different manuscripts in the last three years, not one is finished. The rabbits are still developing, and mama rabbit hasn’t let them out to nibble, lest they be blown to smithereens before they learn how to dodge a bullet; neither have the heroine and her potential lover quite figured out how their story concludes. So I can’t share them with you! Soonish. But not yet.
  
• The French farmer is the critic, shooting into the field of my creativity. 
  In 2021, I took a year-long novel-writing course from Jericho Writer’s. It was excellent! I learned a ton of writing theories and techniques, received lots of critical feedback, and improved my prose; yet it was also devastating to my creative process because I learned so much about what I was doing wrong that I ended up aiming the shotgun at my own manuscripts. In addition, in 2024, I gained a certificate for a professional sequence in editing from UC Berkeley, further discovering all of the grammatical and stylistic mistakes that plagued my manuscripts. Ouch and oucher. (Yes, I know “oucher” isn’t a word, but that’s creativity for you; it plays by its own rules). Listen up, critical farmer! A bit of criticism is healthy. But there’s nothing sexy about shooting down my ideas before they’re fully formed. Change tactics or you’ll end up plotless and alone! 
  
• The French farmer wants to cancel me.
  In my lifelong pursuit to be a considerate human being who is up with the times, I like to listen to those with views other than my own. I encountered a person who told me (paraphrasing here) that I have no right to write about any characters that are not me. Why? Because as a middle-aged, white woman, I am not in a position to tell the stories of anyone that is different from me: those stories are theirs alone to tell. If I am still fool enough to want capture the diversity of those around me within my novels, then I need sensitivity readers to ensure that I have properly represented those that are not me. Apparently, my life experience, my observations, and my friendships with those that aren’t me are all not enough.
  My editing sequence also dove into the importance of bias-free language, though this was mainly attributed to non-fiction. Although I never considered myself to be biased in my writing, these encounters had quite a limiting effect on my creativity.

My goodness. What is this? Am I announcing that I’ve thrown in the towel as a writer because of perfectionism and bias-free writing getting in my way? That I’m canceling myself before anyone else can? Considering I haven’t released a novel since 2017, and I apparently abandoned this blog in 2021, I wouldn’t blame you if you thought this was the case. Or, am I here to tell you I’ve conquered my inner French farmer?

I have indeed made some progress with all three of the French farmers, hussy that I am. (Can I say hussy anymore?) These farmers have some good attributes. They help me to think and consider before I act. But they’re no longer the hot shit that I thought they were. Because I don’t need to write perfect prose, and I damned-well do have a right to exist and write what I want. I will be considerate and kind, but I will never be able to please everyone. I still have a lot of stories in me that want to be told. And I have a right to tell them.

Thus, this long diatribe is to announce that I am writing again! I might even finish a first draft of a novel this year. Yet it will still need to go through many steps before I release it into the world: it will need beta readers, a second draft incorporating beta reader feedback, and a professional proofreader other than myself to eliminate all of the typos and embarrassing mistakes that might pull you, dear reader, out of the story. After that, the novel will need beautiful cover art to convey the emotion and feel of the story, and I will need to develop a marketing plan so more than my friends and family will read said novel that will potentially be finished but probably not released this year. But in the meantime, you know that I’m still here; still writing, thinking, and creating. 

Wow, did you just read this entire Lavender Diatribe? Thank you so much. Really. I’m so happy you’re still here.
Is this a one-off post sort of thing? I doubt it. I have a schedule now, as well as an accountability group of fellow writers. So it’s highly likely you’ll be hearing from me again. And much sooner than three years, two months, and eleven days.

P.S. If you feel like letting me know you’re still out there, that would be nice. Actually, that would be fabulous.