on Anne R. Allen:

OK, admit it. You’re one of them.

You’ve walked the walk of shame.

You threw up your hands, flew the white flag of surrender, and gave up.

That book, the one you started with such high hopes, is dead. It bit the dust mumble-mumble years (decades?) ago.

Now it’s a ghost, a goblin, draped with cobwebs lurking in a spooky cemetery somewhere in the haunted recesses of your hard dive.

Maybe it was gonna be a debut launch that would turn the hottest agents and most powerful editors of Big Six into whimpering beggars, competing for a crumb of your attention.

Or maybe it was intended to be that fabulous breakthrough novel. Ya know. A Reese Witherspoon selection, followed by foreign rights, movie rights, a zillion-dollar streaming deal.

Or a try at a new genre about which, as it turned out, you were clueless, but didn’t know it. Yet.

Whatever we call it, whatever the circumstances, we all have them.

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