writing a novel is scary. scratch that. it’s terrifying. i honestly have no idea what i am doing. when i sit down to work on it i often find myself closing my computer and walking away. ideas can be flowing through my brain up until i am sitting in front of that screen. cursor flashing. the curse of a perfectionist.
overwhelming thoughts: check.
avoidance: check.
wanting the story to write itself: check.
when it comes down to it, i think i am scared to expose my characters to other people. they have been with me for years. slowly developing into the people i want them to be. what if i let them out into the open air and no one likes them? what if no one believes their story? what then? their story is my story. i have long forgotten where they end and i begin. they are my friends. they are my heart. they are
me.
yesterday i was able to work on it for several hours. i made some progress. not much, but some. little steps, i keep telling myself. even after i finished though i had half a mind to scrap it all. crap. all crap. i was consumed by the thought of how pathetic my dialogue was. i wanted to “toss it in the trash.” those hours of work would have been gone. erased.
but instead i will probably avoid it for yet another week.
or so.
the whole story is trapped in my head. waiting to come out. bursting at the seams to come out and onto the page. why won’t it just flow from my brain to my fingertips?
i was looking for a challenge when i first set out to write this thing. and a challenge is what i found.
redumbrellaproject 