This morning I sit in the quiet ready to ponder what it means to pursue this dream of trying to be a writer. The biggest question that plagues me these days is why can’t I get it? I dream of writing middle grade fiction. I dream of having these crazy stories in my head come to life. But it hasn’t happened yet.
What am I missing? Perhaps it’s talent. So few know how difficult it truly is to write fiction. There are a hundred things happening at one time: Point of View, Setting, Character, Microtension, Plot. All these aspects of writing all happen at once and all interconnect. And as much as I wish to will these subsections of writing to intertwine, it is impossible for them to do so. To think of these pieces of writing as intertwining is itself wrong. All aspects of writing are separate yet one. Character is setting is plot is point of view is theme is story
I know how to write. I know how to engage readers, but then…. I fail. I fail because I do not have the stamina or skill to keep all these elements of fiction pumping out of my heart all at once in a continual flow of story magic.
There is so much self doubt in writing. I as a writer am plagued by ego, worthlessness, self importance, envy, jealousy, and pride. I hope it’s not only conceited me. So many worries. Does my agent think I’m baggage? Will my (very kind) editor not wish to hurt me and accept a submission that will embarrass us both? Will I sell enough books to keep the publisher happy?
Don’t be afraid. Just write. Fear not. Just write. Just believe. Just hope. Just have joy. Fear not.
Just. Just. Just. Just.
Write. Write. Write. Read. Read. Read. ReWrite. ReWrite. ReWrite. Read. Read. Read.
Thats all I can do. That’s all I know to do.
Oh, for the power to rule these doubts, to journey on into a story fearless and unafraid. But I am afraid. I’m afraid because I do not know the ending. The writer is the hero of another story beset by psychological tormentors and a villain that is as much myself as the goal I dream of reaching. But that is the answer, isn’t it— reaching?
In a book a hero reaches and reaches and reaches and tries and tries because if he does not, then Middle Earth is ruled by Sauron, Winnie the Pooh never gets a pot of honey, Katniss Everdeen is enslaved by President Snow, Voldemort plunges the world into darkness and terror, in essence, all hope is lost. As a hero of my own story can I bear the thought of all hope being lost?
And, so, as the hero of my own story, I can only try.
I can only…
Write. Write. Write.
Read. Read. Read.
ReWrite. ReWrite. ReWrite.
Read. Read. Read.