In a moment of frustration and desperation yesterday, I thought, “What if I never get anything in print? What will I do if I just end up rambling the rest of my life and never make any sense of anything and never finish anything I’ve started?” I mean, sure I’ve been writing something almost every day. In fact, I need a new black, spiral journal from Barnes & Noble. It’s taken me two years to fill half of the journal, but since February I’ve almost filled the second half. Unfortunately, I haven’t been working any on the novel I started years ago.
I used to blame my lack of inspiration on the anitdepressants I was taking, but now that I’ve been putting my “ass on chair” (Thanks, Urban Semiotic for that phrase), It’s as if the floodgates have opened. However, I haven’t been directing energy into my novel. I can’t seem to finish chapter two, and while I have some idea of what will happen, I just haven’t worked on it.
So is it laziness? Maybe. Perhaps I’m having too much fun blogging. I think part of it is also my perfectionist mentality: I don’t know whether it’s going to be good enough at the end, so I’m afraid to go any further. I want to tell the story; I really do. I want to figure out what these characters are going to do with the “outside forces” that will affect them.
Part of me wants it to be accepted. I want other people to read the story and like it, identify with it, care about it. I hear some novelists say that their first novel is shoved in a bottom drawer somewhere in their house, and I’m horrified. I don’t want to spend weeks and months working on something that I’m going to eventually put away forever. Hell, why not set it on fire in the front yard?