I am forcing myself to sit here again. I’ve intended on writing for months and weeks but — just haven’t been able to sit down and do it. There is always something more important that needs to be done. (To clarify, something more important to other people in my life). Now that I am here, I can’t think of anything to write. Two days ago I had an idea — poof — gone.
I often think of things I’d like to write about while in the middle of other things — searching for my purse, my wallet, or my favorite tube of lip gloss. Sometimes while driving my kids to soccer or football practice, or while vacuuming, while folding clothes, or cleaning out the kitty litter — an opening sentence will come to mind, a memory, or an opinion will surface. I’ll think something like, “Yes, I should write about that time I thought I was a witch and could fly or maybe I should write about Oliver…” (Oliver was my childhood Golden Retriever that I had for all of 5 months — hit and killed by a car at 11 months.)
I’ve been taking online writing classes — but I’m behind. I’m not in love with the classes, but I’ve paid for them. I must complete the class or admit yet another half-assed attempt to become a real writer. I’m not in love with the scenes I’ve written. I’m not in love with the concept. What I’ve written so far is based on various exercises and techniques, but none have resulted in my becoming excited for my character, her goal or the story. They are just exercises. About as exciting as a treadmill. It doesn’t feel like writing. It doesn’t feel like I am creating anything.
Creating. Creation. My husband and I created five babies. That’s creating. Passion ignites creation. My writing needs something to get me moving again. I need writing Viagra. But for a girl. Then I (my character) could ride motorcycles and fix engines and save the world from mass destruction.
I’ve got two barely there novels shoved I don’t know where in my book shelf. I wrote them as an exercise for NANOWRIMO and like everything else, I have done nothing with them. Schlock. A few years back, while in the middle of the contest, a friend of mine — a friend who is no longer a friend — but the real writer of what was once our friendship, perused the few pages I was stupid enough to post on Nano’s website. With silence, she made it very clear that what I wrote was crap. And it was. Banal, mournful, crap. Those pages are on the shelf, too.
I have three unfinished scripts that are nothing but close-but-no-cigar, hot messes of frustration. Two of them were finished, but I’m stuck in the rewrite. It’s like I don’t feel worthy or capable of bringing them to a level that meets the concept. ( I like my concepts). I’m scared that I don’t have it in me. The third — is strictly concept, a mish-mash pile of scenes, all created from technique-based prompts. I have a couple other scripts, too. They are on the shelf. I entered them in contests. A few of them placed, but there they are, collecting dust on the shelf.
And I am here. Today. Ten minutes before I have to pick up my youngest from school. I am writing here knowing full well it is a meaningless, pointless post. It is for no one. I am not posting this as a status update or a Tweet. I have no desire for anyone to read this ever. I just need to write something, dammit, before I go out of my mind with the realization that my whole life sucks and there is no friggin’ way that I can ever do a rewrite. Ever.
Pouting? Yes, I am.
On top of it, I feel a cold coming on. Sore throat. The one bright side, since I’ve been unemployed FOR FECKING EVER, I have not been officially labeled “Non-essential” due to the government shut down.
As I type here — I am listening to a podcast, Writing Excuses Episode 17: This Sucks and I’m a Horrible Writer. It’s about how to overcome the fear of being talentless.
The final points from the podcast:
Keep your hands on the keyboard, finish something.