I’m sitting here, feeling like I just might throw up.
I didn’t eat anything weird, no dog blasted a room-clearing fart, it’s just that I’m about to sit down and start making my way through 95 pages of Kristenness. What if I hate everything I’ve written? What if I feel like I have to start over?
I’ve been putting this off for days — OK, a few weeks — because I’m scared of what I’ll think. It’s so bad that I actually just Googled “patron saint for writers” because I was raised Catholic and that’s a pretty good default: bide yourself even more time and maybe buy some good graces with an honest prayer.
Guess what? Saint Francis de Sales is the patron saint of writers and journalists. Guess what else? That is the very name of the church I attended for most of my life. This, I think, is a good sign.
St. Francis wrote leaflets, which he copied by hand, on the teachings of the church. Yeah, I’d prefer an actual publisher….
