I have this wonderful Aunt who has the audacity to believe in me. January first she sends me a very kind e-mail with an attatched New Years Resolution (for me, keep in mind.) It was to write a book. I owed her an outline by January 31st.
Needless to say, what with my awesome ability of flakiness, mixed with the shock of pregnancy and the joys of morning sickness, I didn't get it to her.
The sick thing, reader, is that I have an outline. I have several chapters fully written. I even have a draft all made out in my e-mail. I have character development, plot lines, scene and sequel layouts the likes of which would put any story-boarder to shame. I mean, it's beautiful. And yet...and yet...
I coudln't quite put my finger on my procrastination. Couldn't quite understand why, now that I have someone who believes in me, is encouraging me, loves me unfailingly (we're family, it's law) I shrink into my shell and cease to exist.
Today I think I figured it out. I normally write while I drive. Um, please put down the phone before you call the police. What I'm saying is I think about what I'd like to write. Fiction flows through my brain so flawlessly while I drive, if I drove to New York I would have an entire book written; in my head. So, as I was driving, I was writing. I got home, opened up the ol' laptop, said a little prayer to help me remember (thanks placenta brain) and began typing away furiously. I stopped, laughing at myself. What is my problem? Why don't I just buck up and send her a draft?
People often tell me, "You should write a book." Close friends, random aquaintances, family members, this guy I live with. It's usually followed by something like, "I mean, Stephenie Meyers did it, you could too." I don't really know what that means. I don't know the woman. I'm assuming these people are refering to the fact that the Twilight series is not sensational as far as writing goes. But it has a beautiful plot, a lasting love story, and interesting characters. Throw in some vampire love makin', you got yourself a hit Hollywood movie!
But I've discovered that I enjoy writing too much to make it a "thing". The Irish in me rebels at the thought of having to work doing what I love. It's nonsense, but it's true. The female in me, however, would love to give birth to my hard work. Would love to see a completed novel, even if Auntie and I were the only ones to read it. The mother in me would feel proud to leave my children with whatever pathetic creation my mind conjured up.
I have a great blogger friend who wrote a book. She failed and failed and failed at getting it published. She finally just decided to put it on the internet. It's not about being published, she's saying. It's about sharing what I've made. She has a point.
I dunno. I'm babbling now. Are there any head-shrinkers out there? Any closet-writers like myself that struggle with overwhelming feelings of inadequacy?