The life of a writer is an interesting one. There are so many hours spent alone, delving in the far-reaches of one's mind, pulling, and sometimes dragging, the inner-most emotions, thoughts, and feelings of oneself to the fore so that the characters come to life on paper. It's a daunting task, but also very fulfilling.

Some days, the writing comes quickly, naturally, flowing smooth and insightful, and I have a hard time getting it all down on paper, or in the computer, fast enough. Then other days, I'm lucky if I can come up with a single line. And even then, the words sometimes end up in the trash.

But when the manuscript is finally finished, there is such a feeling of accomplishment that I can't describe it. And I'm beside myself doing the happy dance in every room of my house. I call my friends, family, and critique group, those who have encouraged me every step of the way. And that's when I realize. I'm not alone in this endeavor. They are all there for me. What would I do without them? I shudder to think. Without their encouragement, ideas, and critiques, the manuscript is just words on paper, not a novel, not a book, not even worth the paper it's written on.

Thanks doesn't seem a big enough word. But here goes, anyway: