Writing a book is so effing hard.
Seriously. The enormity and frequency of emotions I am feeling as I travel on this journey is way more erratic than I could have imagined.
I’ve wanted to write a book or pen a successful script for as long as I can remember. Sounds like such a cliche goal/dream, but it’s true. I have been writing since I was in single digits and even though some days it’s tiring, difficult – impossible – I love it.
This year, after falling in love with reading again, I’ve found the urge/need/want/mojo/desire – whatever – to finally write my first novel and stick to it. This is the longest I have ever stuck to one writing project, the longest I have held onto the drive to do it and the most I have ever wanted to complete a task in my entire life.
But right now, my brain is mush.
Yes. I am writing this blog post purely just to bitch and moan and whinge because the ideas and words just aren’t flowing. Call it procrastination, if you will. I keep picking up the hardcopy version of my story outline and scrolling aimlessly through my working file just re-reading the same bloody lines over and over and OVER again. I don’t feel creative. I’m starting to resent certain ideas, words and names I’ve chosen, and am already back to thinking once again – how the hell do people do this?!
Naturally allllllll of the self-doubt tries to trickle into my brain and I could head down any number of rabbit warrens. BUT after listening to multiple podcasts, researching authors, joining writing Facebook groups and forums and basically just getting to understand how my brain works with writing, I am not despairing.
I know I’ll have better days with writing.
And bloody oath I tell myself that even when I don’t believe it.
My main focus right now is to get a first draft completed by the end of February 2020. I know right. I’ve set a real deadline to have an actual story that flows and makes some sort of sense in just over three months. It’s terrifying and exhilarating all at the same time (I mean, seriously it’s actually terrifying when I have moments like the one I have right now and start freaking out that I can’t actually do this).
But at the risk of sounding cheesy and philosophical, what is living if it’s not feeling all of the emotions, trying to find your passion, giving up and trying again, all while trying to keep your mental, physical, emotional, spiritual and financial health in check? ¯_(ツ)_/¯
I don’t know what I’m saying anymore. Writing is hard okay? And February suddenly seems really fucking close.