You know that moment when you realize you’ve constructed an elaborate maze, only to discover that you are the one stuck in it? Yeah, welcome to my life. Currently, I’m sitting here, deep in the labyrinth of my fifth book, wondering if I’ll ever find the exit—or at least a decent plot twist.
It started out so well. I had a plan (shocking, I know). Alexia and Phoebe, my two protagonists, were going to face some seriously scary stuff this time—no pink unicorns, I swear. The beginning was smooth, even exciting. I also know exactly how it’s all going to end. Spoiler alert: there’s a dragon. A large, angry one.
Wait, did you actually believe the dragon thing? No, of course not. Alexia comes home safe and sound, just as any good protagonist should, carrying home a sackful of wonderful memories. And no dragons were harmed in the making of this book.
But here’s where things take a turn (or don’t, really): I’m stuck in the middle. The dreaded middle. The part where everything should be building up, but instead, it’s about as interesting as watching paint dry. I’ve got three pages—too many to just skate by, but not enough room to throw in another twist, unless I want to stick a dragon in a pink cloud. (Which… actually, isn’t the worst idea I’ve had.)
So now, I sit here, contemplating whether this is a legitimate creative crisis, or if I’m just procrastinating. Probably both. Who knew writing children’s picture books could make you question your entire life’s purpose?
Artistic Adventures with Victoria 
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