posted by Michelle Griep for author Robin Mason
“I’ve been thrown in the deep end. Of a deep ocean. In a tidal wave. And all I want to do is write my stories."
This is how I began my first blog post as an author. Didn’t even feel like an author yet, even though I had just released my debut novel. I started Tessa with nary a clue what I was doing, except writing—telling her story. In the nearly two years since then, I’ve learned a couple of things.
First of all, there are no rules.
Second, not all methods work for every writer.
There are two types of writers and two types of readers. We writers are either planners or pantsers. I’m 100% pantser. Readers are either readers of fiction or readers or nonfiction, ne’er the twain shall meet. Or rarely.
The biggest thing I’ve learned in the ocean is networking.
So as I learn to swim in the shark infested deep waters, mayhap I’m taming some of those sharks. Mayhap I’m learning a thing or two about doing the amazing thing God has given me to do. To let my stories out. To share my infinite imagination with the world. And if I can do it, you can too!
“So, now you know. I’m learning to swim. And I think my feet are touching some sand in the murky waters, and I’m starting to wade through this media panoply.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
|Author Robin E. Mason|
Robin has lived in the Upstate of South Carolina since 1988. She lived in Colorado for sixteen years, during which time she: went to high school, got married, had babies, got divorced and went to college. Her “babies” are now grown, two have babies of their own. She currently lives alone, with her five cats.
Robin writes Christian-worldview—in other words, there's no salvation message, but there are plenty of characters who know the Lord and share His perspective with those who are struggling.
ABOUT THE BOOKS:
CLARA BESS wasn’t at all prepared for what she unearthed at the bottom of her mother’s keepsake box. Not in with legal papers, not in her own baby book, not in the safe even.
On the day of her 50th birthday, Clara Bess Caldwell was not with her family basking in the joy of a blissful Christmas Day winding down. She was not enjoying eggnog or coffee by a fireplace, nor was she checking a goose roasting in the oven.
Clara Bess was at her mother’s house, going through her personal effects, when with shock and no small degree of confusion, she read the line on her birth certificate where her mother’s name should be. It did not read Lily Isabella Sawyer.
Clara Bess was adopted. Where, then, were the adoption papers?