Well, this is just a little embarrassing. I took a look back at the date of my last blog entry, and apparently I have been quiet since last September. Definitely embarrassing. Unfortunately, my blog hasn’t been the only thing suffering from lack of wordage. September was probably the last time I actually wrote anything new for my book. I’ve done lots of editing and tweaking. And tweaking and editing. However, my poor characters have been living in limbo, surviving on disappearing rations of words and clean drinking water.
I have discovered that those people who dig their own rabbit holes are a curious lot. Let’s face it, taking your own route and not following the well-worn paths made by others does take a different kind of person. Words like quirky, eccentric, peculiar, and odd are commonly thrown around to describe my fellow hole-diggers. And to be honest I’m so ok with that. I learned long ago that I have no interest being a clone of the safe and accepted. I’m not the usual kind of mom, aunt, wife (although I’m sure my son would like a larger dose of normal in his mother, but hopefully when his teenage years have passed he’ll appreciate the curiosity that is his mom…hopefully).
Digging your own hole does however come with its own dangers. Each person has their own demons to slay, and sometimes those buggers are bloody huge. One of mine is the total and absolute lack of faith in myself. It manifests itself in so many different ways, but usually I like to self-sabotage. I’d much rather fail by my own hand than by the hands of others. I’ve done it over the years with school, friendships, and now it’s rearing its ugly head with my writing.
I’m at the halfway mark in my book. The driving force for the first half was to get my two characters to fall for one another. Well they have, and now I must throw in all the obstacles that romance readers know the lovers need to overcome before they can find their happily ever after. I have it all sketched out…have had it roughly figured out for a few months now. But until yesterday, I haven’t written a single word. I’ve read and re-read what I have written and I think what I have so far is good. I think I’d read it if I saw it on Amazon. But then all these little mental mosquitos start buzzing around me, making me question and doubt myself. Am I going to be able to tie all the loose threads up into a nice neat ending? Am I going to be able to write another 60,000 words? Am I going to be able to do what I need to do get this book ready for self-publishing? Is anyone going to read it? Are they going to hate it? What is it going to be like putting it all out there and have people pick it apart? All these thoughts can be deafening and my first instinct is to hide my head in the sand, ignoring all of the thousands of words I have written. Ignore the world I have created. Ignore the characters that have taken on lives of their own since I first typed their names.
But I love these people. I love the world they live in. I love the relationships they have. And I kinda want to see what happens to them in the end. So yesterday, sitting at a table in my local Starbuck’s, after almost five months, I wrote a brand new paragraph…the beginning of a new chapter, both in my book and I think in my own world as well. I’m still terrified to put it all out there for the world (or at least maybe a few readers) to see, but I don’t want to feel like a failure anymore. I want my son to be proud that his mom took a chance and at least tried. And I guess I’d like to feel proud of myself as well.
So I’m back. I’m going to publish this blog, and then I’m going to write the second (and maybe third) new paragraph in my story and see what trouble my guys can get into.