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As an author, what scares me the most is…
That I’m creating “make work”—pieces that may technically get published but won’t be read, talked about, recommended, or remembered. The idea that I could pour myself into a story, sculpt every sentence, and still have it vanish into the void terrifies me. I fear irrelevance more than rejection.
There’s also a deeper fear: the audacity to believe I can write something worth reading. Sometimes I wonder if it’s hubris to think I can create characters people will care about, narratives they’ll follow, or themes that resonate. What if I’m wrong? What if the emotional truth I’m trying to convey gets lost in translation, and the picture I’m painting in my head never fully reaches the reader?
I worry about clarity—about whether my intentions are coming through. That the scene I see vividly might feel flat or confusing to someone else. That the nuance I’m chasing is too subtle, or worse, too obvious. I fear becoming stale, repeating myself, or running out of something new to say. That my voice will lose its edge, and what once felt authentic will start to feel manufactured.
But perhaps the scariest part is that writing demands vulnerability. And at times I find it difficult to dig down to unearth the substance for a character and/or their motivations. Also, that the characters I create, which are bits and pieces of people I have known or know in my life, will feel revealed, betrayed and/or insulted.
When Jacqueline follows her trusty Labrador Bailey down a hidden path to the beach, she’s unaware that her vacation plans on a small island off the New England coast has already taken her life in a new direction. Running into an unassuming local beach comber stirs new thoughts, desires, and a self-determination she never knew she possessed. Jacqueline will need to trust her instincts and make the most of what fate has in store if she wants the future that, until now, she has only dared to dream of.
Enjoy an Excerpt
The ferry was taking its sweet time making its way to Block Island.
Time is the ultimate dictator. Where did I hear that? I couldn’t have just come up with that one on my own.
Jacqueline French grabbed one of the last outside seats on the Block Island Ferry. It had only left Point Judith, RI, ten minutes ago, but for her, it seemed like ten hours ago. This would be her fourth September visiting this tiny tear drop-shaped island nestled between the south coast of Rhode Island and Montauk Point, located at the eastern tip of the south fork of Long Island, New York.
Over the last several years, both Montauk Point and Block Island had become popular and expensive vacation destinations for well-to-do Manhattanites. They came seeking a reprieve from the overly manicured crowds who flocked every summer to the more fashionable vacation locale known collectively as the Hamptons.
She always preferred visiting Block Island this time of year, after many of the Labor Day vacation stragglers dispersed and the kids were back at school. Although there were still a fair number of visitors, the din of racing mopeds was confined mostly to the weekends. Thanks to Michael, who she met on her first trip to Block Island, she came to know virtually every back road and trail on this seven-mile-long by three-mile-wide island. Beyond its beauty, Jacqueline’s deeper connection with the island was its shape. She shed many tears lately over the fate of her marriage and the direction her life had taken.
About the Author: Cynthia Flowers, a recently retired advertising professional, now grant writer, resides with her husband and four-year old Labrador named Eddie, at their “sanctuary” in Upstate New York, Although previously published, this is Cynthia’s first book of fiction. Early on in grade school, Cynthia looked forward to creative writing class and enjoyed reading her stories aloud to her eager classmates.
Buy the book at Amazon.
