An on again, off again affair.

Well, I'm back to it now. During the time away from my writing, I questioned myself constantly about my capability of completing this project. The longer away, the more I missed it and the more I wondered if it was just too great a feat for me to accomplish. I doubted myself and my writing, more often than I acknowledged, even to myself.
And now, here I sit, staring it all in the face and anxious to put that intimidating pen to paper. And I feel...good. I feel more ready than I did even before I decided to take the break. I don't know if I forgot I loved it so much as I let my love of it scare me off a bit. I've always felt that if I can't be great, if I can't produce something that truly relfects my care and dedication to the craft and evoke something real with my words, then I don't want to ruin this thing that I love. I don't want it to be mediocre and I, myself don't want to be ordinary.
However, today, in this moment, I don't give a damn. I just want to do what I love, even if I privately butcher the english language. For now, I will write. What? I'm not sure yet. Maybe something for the book, maybe part of another project, maybe a ten pages on whatever pops into my scattered little brain as it wanders-- I will simply write today and it's a beautiful thing.

Happy Stress is Stress, Nonetheless

     I've been so busy lately; which is to be expcected, with my wedding 3 months away, finals coming up and trying to buy a house. But the longer I go without writing, the more restless I become, wanting to spend a few hours--or even minutes, with the story I want to tell. Hopefully I'll have some of my inspiration left when things slow down again in the Fall, or maybe I should say "if", they slow down.
     For now though, I must settle for joting down a note or two here and there, while the majority of my energy and attention is focused elsewhere. I miss my characters-- creating them, shaping them, arguing with them in my own head. I'll get back to it, soon. And one day, hell, I may even finish the damn thing.
     Until then, I suppose...

How to NOT Write a Book: 101

     It's Friday. After an unexpected change of plans, it seems that I have two free days. My first impulse is always to write. I think, "I have all those hours to sit with my computer and finally get some pages done!". So I sit and I get comfortable and then.... nothing.
     Damn.
     Where is my book? Where are my characters? Where is that amazing story I started but can never seem to finish? My stubborn unability to clear my head will be the death of me! Or at least, of my book.

This simply will not do...

Monday rearing it's ugly head...

     We move in 3 days. My excitement is almost equaled by my impatience. There is not much left to be done and so I'm afraid boredom will be keeping me company for the next few days. I've made little progress with the book but haven't given up. It's nice out today so I think I will go sit in the sunshine and see if an idea decides to drop by.
     Cross your fingers...

A wish for inspiration.

     I've had my coffee, I've smoked my ciggarette and I've changed into comfortable pants that I would be prefectly content sitting in for hours, while I write. And yet, the words don't come. The images and ideas that have been restlessly waiting to be released from my mind have abandoned me the moment I sit down to focus. Why is this? And why does it always seem so tangible, save for when I actually try to get a hold on it?
     How frustrating this is! The story is there, locked away in my head somewhere with a promise of beauty and eloquence. I can see the characters; feel what I want them to do and say and be. I swear I can make it come to life, I can. It just feels as though the words are playing with me- almost mocking me, and making me work harder for my own imagination.
     Somehow I will do this. I will write this book, because-- well, because I just have to. I'm sure I'll go insane if I don't. One day, I'll see my name on that cover and smile at a dream that found its way to reality.