So it’s 11:30 at night, and I’m up writing. I have a deadline this week, and I have started five different projects without getting past the beginning of any of them. I only need one.
Yeah, this is the part where the little voice in the back of my head that keeps me on track in life just starts screaming into a pillow. I feel a little guilty about that.
There’s really no logic to the block, though. I’ve had plenty of ideas. Ideas are not the problem.
No, it’s more the total and completely crippling self-doubt.
I just keep second(or third or fifth)-guessing myself. Maybe this isn’t good. Maybe it isn’t worth writing to the end. I could write to the end of this story, sure. But I bleed over my stories–I put everything into them. I can’t just write it and let it be “okay.” If it doesn’t say something worth saying, why bother?
My laziness has teeth.
Do you know what would be awesome? Having one day where you only have good ideas. No writing ideas that you can’t carry into a good story, that would peter out after 500 words. Or having the confidence in yourself that you can write something worth reading because you’ve done it before, plenty of times, and it’s still in there, in you. Like Felix Felicis for writers.
It’s okay. Nothing that gritting my teeth, a tankard of matcha tea, and actually catching a full night’s sleep won’t fix.
It’s just a little scary, taking that step off the cliff into dark unknown. Writing is scary, sometimes. I think that’s part of what makes it beautiful. Like seeing the world from the top of a tree. You can see everything below you from up there, small and perfect. But would it be the same if the limbs didn’t sway beneath you in a strong breeze? If you didn’t always have to keep one hand laced through the branches, every muscle just a little tight? Just a little more alive?
What do I know? Maybe it would be.
How am I otherwise?
Finally got my claws on Kipling’s Puck of Pook’s Hill. About time, too. I’ve been hunting it–what, nearly five years now? It was one of those books I couldn’t bring myself to ask for at the circulation desk. I mean, imagine walking up and saying “Yes, hallo, have you got Puck of Pook’s Hill? Yes, Pook. That’s the word.” I don’t think I could have gotten through it without laughing. In a library.
Listening to The Count of Monte Cristo musical soundtrack (again). Realizing the plot similarities between it and Colfer’s Airman–but that’s for another day. I need something to listen to as I write. Been bouncing back and forth between Frankenstein: A New Musical, Monte Cristo, and The Phantom of the Opera for the last few days. The Sierra Boggess version of Phantom. You know. If you were curious.
Also, there is a Percy Jackson musical? That one takes the cake for “I would totally not have expected that” this round.
Anyway. I’m off to go catch a fish. In ink, of course. Wish me luck.
This time. This time I’ll make it to the end.