Deborah Anderson

In 2000, Deborah Anderson left the medical field to care for her elderly mother. Soon after, she began writing. She has written for Focus on the Family, Chicken Soup for the Soul, and numerous other publications. She is a member of TWV, ACFW, CWG, and FCW. Married 30 years, Deborah and her husband enjoy country living in the Midwest. She also spends her time rescuing cats, reading novels, and taking nature walks. Deborah recently completed her first novel. You can contact Deborah at:

Diary of A Crazy Writer

Buzzing over a New Manuscript

Excitement flowed through my veins when I finished the draft of my first novel. I’m in the money. Hey, maybe someone will want to purchase the film rights for this. Woo! Hoo!

Okay, you can stop laughing now. A gal can dream, can’t she?

Anyway, my grandiose thoughts of fame didn’t last very long. A few days later, I sat in front of the TV, eating lunch when a preview for an upcoming movie flashed across the screen. Not only did the film contain the same plot elements as those in my story, but two of the leading characters shared the same names as mine.

My eyes nearly bugged out of my head. What? Somebody stole my stuff.

I was madder than a queen bee whose hive had been disturbed. And trust me, I should know. I’ve been chased after disturbing the precious insects before.

With my stinger out of joint, I buzzed upstairs to my office, fired up the computer, and stared at the monitor. How could this happen?

As miffed as I was, though, I knew nobody stole my work, and there was only one thing I could do. If I didn’t rewrite the whole manuscript, people would accuse me of stealing someone else’s story.

I looked around the room, knowing I needed a fresh batch of inspiration for the difficult task. Instead of gleaning ideas, like most normal people would, I decided a change in my environment would do the trick.

Huffing and puffing, I pulled books off the bookshelves, moved the bookcases to the opposite wall, and dragged my desk to the center of the room. After putting everything back together, I admired my new sanctuary, until my eyes drifted to the cords strewn across the floor to the left of my workstation.

Soon after, my husband came home from work, stood in the doorway, and shook his head. “I see you’re trying to get creative again.” His eyes shifted to the floor. “It’s probably not a smart idea having those cords there.”

I narrowed my eyes. How dare the man disturb my hive? Buzz.

“Okay, fine,” he said. “I’m going to take a nap.”

Later the same evening, the doorbell rang. Footsteps echoed down the marble entryway in the foyer. My husband’s voice followed. “She’s upstairs.”

My brother walked into my office, looked around, and just like my husband, shook his head.

I flipped my hand. “What?”

“Hope you don’t trip over those cords.”

I pointed to the other side of the desk. “I’m going to walk around this way. It’s no big deal.”

“Okay, if you say so, but what if you want a book out of the bookcase on this side of the room?”


Two more days passed before I finally attempted to tackle my manuscript. I settled in at my desk, fingers poised over the keyboard, but paused when the screech of a wounded animal rang from outside. I jumped from my chair, ran toward the window, tripped over the cords trailing from my desk, and slammed into the wall, headfirst. I didn’t see stars or anything, but I could have sworn I heard a swarm of bees buzzing around my ears.

Massaging my head, I eyed my desk. What kind of idiot would put a desk in the middle of the room, with cords trailing off to one side for someone to trip over?


It’s a blessing I didn’t push my face through the plate-glass window.

After crawling to my feet, I hobbled around the desk, sat down in my chair, and picked up the phone to call my brother.

“Hey, Deb, what’s up?”

“Oh, not much. I just took a trip.”


“Into my wall. You know, the cords by the desk you warned me about?”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I hit my head, but you’ve always said I’m hardheaded, right?”

“Deb, you really should get checked out.”

“No, I’m—”

“Listen, Deb, there was this woman who had an accident. She hit her head, too. Thought she was fine at the time, but she ended up dead.”

Thanks, big brother. I feel so much better now.

“If my head starts pounding too bad, I’ll handle it then.”

“I’m serious, Deb.”

The tone in my brother’s voice told me he wanted to pound on me for being so obstinate.

When I eventually got back to the manuscript, the problem was still there. Rearranging my office had done nothing at all, except give me a headache, along with a major goose egg on my noggin.

After months of hard work, I’m happy to report that I recently finished the rewrite of my novel, but it wasn’t easy, let me tell you.

What’s the point in all this?

Well, should you ever face the same task, dive in headfirst (no pun intended) and get ’er done. Don’t allow yourself to become distracted with other things. It will only prolong the inevitable. Such actions could also be hazardous to your health. Seriously.

I hope another producer doesn’t come out with a film similar to this book. If he does, it ain’t gonna be pretty.


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