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This weekend I find myself missing this blog. I find myself missing the feeling of being a proper, focused writer. Probably because I have just returned from the bliss of being nothing but a writer in one of my favorite cities in the world…and have spent the last four days sick in bed.

IMG_6282In my last post I made the deal with myself that I would post when I wasn’t working on my writing. I can’t say I kept that deal. There have been many days that I haven’t done anything writerly…with no post to own up. Still, in these intervening months, I’ve obtained input from agents, done a massive revision of the manuscript and another in-depth read-through, and have a list of potential agents started, as well as a decent query letter and synopsis. The website, alas, hasn’t gone as well as I hoped. I discovered it’s hard to create an author’s website when you’re not really sure who you are as an author. My interests and goals are too varied, and my accomplishment too few.

And so I took myself over to Oxford for a four-day getaway…to be alone, to be inspired, to be nothing but a writer. Despite getting a horrible cold upon my return, it was worth it. I got a Bodleian Reader’s Card and did research in a 15th century library; found inspiration and ideas at the Ashmolean Museum and the Museum of the History of Science for a new series I intend to write…a trilogy of contemporary fantasy; and did frivolous things like listen to Chopin in the Sheldonian and drink champagne cocktails at the Morse Bar.

But now I’m home…back to real life…and returning to better health, so I can’t continue to spend the days in bed eating toast and living in reruns of Inspector Lewis. And so returns the same question…how do I feel like a writer when my life doesn’t feel like that of a “real” writer? Or at least the way I dream it should.

I come to this blog for the answer. This blog, which helped shape a writer’s life for me when I wasn’t sure how that could be possible, reminds me that it’s the smallest actions, the slightest shifts in perception, the mere act of holding on to your dream, that makes the dream real…that makes me a writer, regardless.