Beginning to write a novel when you have never sold a novel is a risky venture. Admitting to others that you are attempting a novel is compounding the risk. Knowing that you cannot possibly complete said novel without the assistance of others, enlisting their help, asking them to donate time out of their lives in pursuance of a product that can only be described as speculative is downright scary. I’m traveling to Tucson to gather images to go with a story that is barely crawling at this point. Yes, I’m hoping it finds legs and strides out into print. Yes, I’m hoping that I can pull the dialogue, images and plot together. Yes I believe this will happen. But, still, it’s scary. Always this need to try new things. Without new beginnings, depression haunts me. Why?