While I was in school for my masters, one of the women in my class says she has trouble sharing her writing (either in hard copy or reading it aloud). Mind you, we were in a program designed to turn out professional writers; writers who are published in one type of publication or another; novelists, poets, paid bloggers, you know the type. People who put words on paper for OTHERS to read.
Her comment brought out several others. The women would read or hear someone else’s work and immediately feel that theirs wasn’t as good and therefore not worth sharing. I sat there with an expression of “hmmm” because honestly, I don’t feel that way. I’m eager to share my work with others which is why I write. I want my writing to be the best it can be because I’m not doing it to keep it in a drawer. I want to make thousands, possible millions from my writing and that’s not going to happen if it’s gathering dust in some box in my closet, or so jacked up that no one wants to buy it.
All of that to say this, I have learned that this profession is a labor of love and extreme patience. I was all ready to take the 3rd book to print but stopped short thinking I should take more time with it, develop it more, or maybe just rewrite the whole thing based on what I know of the process. On my way to becoming a professional writer, I now can’t decide when my writing is ready to share. I want people to read what I write, I want feedback, comments, critiques even. But I don’t want to rush anything to “print” anymore. Oh the dilemma.
Which brings me to my NaNo. It’s not going so well and I’m starting to loose faith that I’ll finish this year. It’s a good story, at least as far as my characters are concerned, but I’m not so sure I have the writing cojones to pull it off. I’m in uncharted territory; there’s murder, a somewhat silent protagonist, or is he? Oh, and of course there’s the cheating husband who manages to get killed in a totally different story I’m writing…sigh. I’ve also been distracted by personal issues. A missed nervous break down and recovery, a botched murder of my previous life…and wondering if this is gut instinct or insecurity. All of this combined has left my muse perplexed as he’s not sure what to do to seduce me from this funk. His usual whisperings, caresses, and foreplay aren’t enough to get me there. I feel sorry for him, but what can I do?
Either way, I write. No matter what I think of it, the words I produce…I can’t not write. Oh well. I continue to celebrate the realization of this dream and the journey. Thanks for coming along with me.