It is a very quiet Saturday morning in my home. My home is never quiet, so I am slightly concerned, but not concerned enough to wake anyone and trigger the daily noise. Usually, I hear boisterous, sometimes irritating conversations being held by family or there is a constant, artificial noise from a television which I despise. On a normal Saturday, I hear the bell on the washing machine telling me the wash cycle has completed rinsing the delicate garments or I suddenly catch the ice maker in the freezer making cubes. Outside, the crickets are buzzing and the air is slowly moving through the trees. Somehow, these sounds always feel right.
At night, I ask Alexa to play an artist I find relaxing or one I find loud and fast as I am washing dinner dishes and listening to the extremely loud frogs that live in my backyard. In all this normalcy, I hear my home living, but I don’t listen to it. One exceptional sound I’ve come to listen intently to and find peace in is the ringing chimes of the beautiful grandfather clock in the large, empty formal living room. It takes me instantly to the story I am writing. The clock is ornate and large and the sound beautiful, commanding and church-like. In those moments of chiming, I realize my characters all take their place on stage and begin to live. Clara and Alex, Victoria and Max, Claude and Lena reside in a dramatic, rich world that’s somehow regal and yet, slightly dangerous. I know my home is never really quiet and I am not sure I’d want it that way.
In the midst of the beautiful quiet interrupted by clock chimes and characters, I sit with a cup of coffee and decide to write a blog about the purpose of this blog. Why? I owe it to my characters. They require a particular reader. Does this reader exist? I hope so, but question why they would read my insights? Maybe they will relate to my life and my characters? Yet, is ChristinaRealNJ explicit enough to grab the attention of the extravagant, particular reader I am searching for?
I started this blog with the intent to find an audience for my first novel. No, I am not done writing the novel and yes, it’s developing. Sometimes I know the beginning, middle and end. Sometimes I live in this imaginary world and have such a wonderful time, I forget to put it on paper. Yet, my search for an audience remains unfulfilled. I ponder, Where are women over forty who wonder if souls are predestined for one another? Where are the women dragging themselves through perimenopasue and menopause who still enjoy sex, love to flirt and manage to look wonderful? Where are girls drooling over a Gucci handbag and marble kitchen tiles all in one day? Where are the women who are educated through universities and/or life? Where are the career women and housewives or both? I’m looking for the goddesses with a very tight circle of friends who don’t trust easily. Where are the woman who have all the “stuff” women over forty are supposed to have, but really want to run away from home even for a few hours to read a great book with a great cup of coffee in peace? Where are the women who want to hop a plane for a different life in complete terror not knowing what to expect? Are you there? I need all of you. Don’t just hear me roar, listen.
For these reasons and these remarkable women and a few, extraordinary men, I write. I blog to discover who you are because I have an amazing story to tell you.