Sunday, April 29, 2012

On Writing

Writing is hard. The words, the scenes the characters, they are there, swirling in my mind. I'm talking to them, plotting, scheming developing the worlds and talents. I know so many things about my story I've had such trouble with before. The problem? Getting it on paper. I don't ever have the time to write it down. Oh yes, see I'm one of those strange people that likes to actually put pen to paper or pencil and feel the words come out. I do write like this without writing it first on paper. I don't write my reviews on paper either. They actually suck when I write them on paper. I'm wordy and say way more than you could possibly want to know about how the book made me feel and what I did and didn't like about the book. 
But these things work in my favor when I'm writing a novel. These all add to the depth of a novel. So all those conversations my characters have had between each other that are swirling in my brain, everything they've seen and done, I'm afraid I'm going to lose the best of it if I don't get it down on paper. Yet, I'm constantly reading and reviewing because I have a book blog and I can't say no, especially to authors that are just starting out. So, my story is just up there, swirling with all the other information lost in a sea of thoughts that may or may not be remembered.
Oh and when I do have snatches of time to write it down, it's on a scrap of paper which always gets lost. I've got countless notebooks roaming around with various bits of my stories in it. Who knows they may be going to school with my kids and their teachers are reading them. God only knows what they are thinking. What I write down, what I remember is the bare bones of a scene. The stems of a plant in a garden. The leaves, the design, the flowers, the fruit, none of that has been added. Really they are just little sprouts poking out of the dirt. But they are there. And I think they are good. And I'll do it this time. Because I'm not getting any younger and no one is going to do it for me and it's my garden to grow. And I'd never want anyone else to touch it.  And I'm tired of one day. It starts, one day is now.  I may have to give up my book blog, but if that is what it takes, then I'll do it. It's time to do the work. It's my time. So I'll take one notebook and gather all my writing together and write. Then I'll take the next scary step. Find a critique partner/group. First though, I'll write. Every day. I owe it to that girl in fifth grade who said she wanted to be a writer. To the girl who earned a degree in English and said I want to be a writer and was told she couldn't do it so she didn't try. It's time to let go of that. Time to prove them wrong. Time is running out. 

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