Who is a writer who doesn’t write? That question has been plaguing me for nearly a month now. I’ve been very quiet on the writer side of things lately because…well I’m not sure how to describe what’s been going on. A lot has happened, sure, but a lot of it feels like an excuse. An excuse for why I haven’t been doing my job. For why I haven’t been sitting down at the computer every day like I told myself I would and get words down. Or if not that, at least research agents, or work on my platform or any of the other million-and-one things authors need to do.
But I’m not an author…yet. I am merely a writer. Which means I don’t need to work hard, I have to work harder. I can’t sit around and lollygag with my time. Didn’t I say in another post that time was such a finite commodity it should never be wasted? So where did I go wrong?
For the first time in my writing career, I rewrote one of my novels from scratch. And it was the most difficult thing I’ve ever written. Apart from being confusing with prior versions, I had such a difficult time getting the story out once I was done I shoved it away and didn’t want to look at it for months. And typically what I would have done was start on another project immediately. But that didn’t happen. I’ve gotten to the point where I have four novels I’ve completed for which have done no better than a couple of requests for pages and I felt like perhaps I should revisit one of them first before starting anything else new. But instead I retreated into my hobbies, a little too far I suspect. It’s like snuggling deep within a heavy blanket on a cold day, you get so comfortable it hurts to come out. But it is what I must do. If I ever hope to achieve my goals, I have to go out into the cold, and do the job that needs doing.
So here we go. One foot out, and maybe it isn’t as cold out there as I thought.
