I am writing a book.
It’s going… oookaaaay.
I don’t know if anyone other than myself and my husband will ever read it, but it’s getting written goshdarnit. And it’s getting written this year.
I’ve known I was going to write a book for a few years now. It was just a matter of what, when, and get going. The “what” is still developing. The “when” and the “get going” have finally been decided by an iron-clad contract. And by “iron-clad contract,” I mean: a hastily scribbled sentence detailing my intent and commitment, written on a scrap piece of paper I can no longer find. But it was witnessed and signed by my husband.
The deal is I have to write for one hour each weekday this month. I get one sick day (I already used it). By September 1, I will turn in my book proposal to my husband. We’ll evaluate and go from there. All good goals need a reward, so when I complete this first agreement, my reward is a day of consignment store shopping sans children.
The first morning of my contract, I stumbled downstairs to turn on my computer, and was jealous it could function at the hour I had chosen to wake it — because I certainly wasn’t functioning.
I stared at the blank screen, fingers poised and ready to dance. But my head stubbornly refused to emit any knowledge, wisdom, wit, or even subject matter. I searched the internet for some writing prompts, found one about Cinderella’s shoe fitting the stepsister instead of Cinderella, and started writing dialogue I’m too embarrassed to share with anyone. I was checking the clock every minute, just dying for the hour to end.
This was not working.
I tried again the next morning. And the morning after. And on and on. Occasionally I would be able to produce something I was proud of, but most often I ended my session downhearted and frustrated. But each morning, I have still made my empty-headed way to the computer.
I began to read my old blog posts to just get places to start. Every now and then I was happy with something I had written in the past, but for the most part, I only saw the foolish flaws and the language that could have been funnier, could have been more meaningful, could have been, could have been.
It’s almost a fact of life that once you set your mind to something, all hell breaks loose in the form of self-doubt. I’m not sure I have the ability to do what I want to do, but for whatever reason, I am currently being blessed with the pitiful ability to trudge along in this lonely journey.
I really like consignment store shopping.