My legs itch. My shoulder aches. It is sweltering.

But...I actually buried myself in Megan's story this evening and cranked out over six pages. I am working up to a scene I know will be difficult, but in doing so, I stumbled upon a passage or two that I really like.

It's strange to me that I have shared what I have written thus far on this novel with a few people whom I thought might get the message I am trying to compose and yet none of them have given me any real response. I have to work hard at hiding my disappointment. I like the story. I believe it is an important message. And there are portions of it that even I think are quite good. [Any reader of this site should know by now what a harsh critic of myself I can be.] Yet I have essentially received silence when querying what those readers thought of my tale. Silence wrapped up in vague responses of "I like it." or "It is good."

Times such as this night, times when I write and read and know immediately that what I have composed is solid writing, that I wonder if I am just plain crazy as to not see the lack in my story or if I am too close to Megan and her tale for any true judgment or if they are all simply blind.

I wonder and I am disappointed, but I am driven all the more to finish...if but for no one else than myself.