I am not a social creature. After a day at a bustling office, all I want to do is go home and immerse myself in fiction, either my own works or a book.

This good group at the Writer’s Retreat has coaxed me out of my shell and encouraged me in ways I’d not thought possible. And the more people I meet, the more I find published authors and hopefuls alike announcing a roll of contact resources longer than my grocery list. I’m starting to feel foolish for hanging back.

One friend flat-out insists I need a Facebook presence to become a successful writer. Yet even as my resistance is tested by this gloomy forecast, I haven’t given in. For one thing, my employer blocks social networks, which means I must investigate them at home. And when I’m there, precious few hours are hoarded like treasure and spent on (hopefully) uninterrupted writing time.

A naïve part of me dreams of discovery by some powerful entity in the publishing industry. I want a benevolent handler who will front the business end and let me write. How’s that for fantasy? Especially since so much of what I write is rather far off the beaten path.

Perhaps it’s best for me to remain that way, peacefully occupying my own patch of undiscovered country, and enjoy sharing stories without the stress a professional encounters. I don’t want just another job entailing more dull meetings and endless emails.

Anyway, all of this speculation is pointless without finished product. Nobody has use for an incomplete story. That said, I’m going to try to block out the world for a while and have some fun.