During this time, I’ve done some writing (the first drafts of second and third novels are almost half done). I read some books from my wish list. Yet there is this guilt—of not writing enough—lingering over my head like a patch of black cloud, plaguing me day and night. Somewhere I’ve heard that many aspiring writers (and even seasoned writers) carry this feeling. I hope I’m not alone.
Losing (or giving up rather) that sense of belonging (to a specific place) has made me feel as if I’m only a traveler, standing beside a train station, holding my luggage, hoping there would come a train to take me to some new place. I’d never expected this sense of waiting, this period of angst, could change a person in so many ways.
This waiting has also come with hope for a new beginning. It has come with a chance to reflect on life, an opportunity to right what had gone wrong.
And as part of continuing the journey, of picking up the pieces, I’ve begun to revisit my first novel, The Fate of a Moth. It’s time to make some changes to the manuscript of The Moth, rewrite my query letter and synopsis. It’s time to send it out to the world, so it can one day find its love.