I told myself we wouldn’t be back here, with me posting about how sorry I am that I haven’t been posting. I told myself that I would be so much better about it…I would start Love Story Friday and that would keep me motivated, even when I didn’t want to blog. And it was working! For awhile.
So, here we are, at the end of 2012. This time last year, I had just finished my book and was in the editing process. A year later, I’ve started another, but haven’t finished it yet. As for the first book…let’s just say that it still needs work. And my blogging? Well, just like all the journals and diaries I started and abandoned as a kid, I pretty much suck at regularity.
I suppose you could say that I just have the holiday blues. I’m not going home for Christmas for the first time in my 32 years of existence, and it’s got me a little down in the dumps. I can’t seem to make my book work which makes me think it’s one of the ones I should shove under my bed in order to focus on something else. I see everyone around me finishing drafts and publishing novels and while I am so happy for them, I also wonder what’s wrong with me?
I know in my heart, modesty be damned, that I am a good writer. I’m always learning, always trying to be better, but I have talent. I think I’ve known that for a very long time, but there’s something inside of me that urges me to never brag…to be humble and unassuming and even self-deprecating. Even now, I feel guilty for acknowledging that I might be good at the thing that I love to do. Maybe it’s a Southern thing; maybe it’s something that runs much deeper. That’s another post for another day. In short, the only thing I think that’s keeping me from moving forward is my own inability to finish anything I start.
Back in high school, I started a story about the romance between a Jewish girl and German officer in WWII. For some reason, I showed the first page or so to a couple of girls in my class (not close friends, but in a graduating pool of fifty people, everyone knew everyone). I remember them laughing and rolling their eyes, and while their exact words faded over time, their disdain and their insinuation that such a story was ridiculous and not worth telling never has. I put the story down that day and never looked at it again. Last year, however, I read an amazing book by Pam Jenoff called “The Kommandant’s Girl.” It won a Quill award, became a bestseller and will probably be a movie sometime in the future.
Guess what it was about?
The point is not that Pam Jenoff has a time machine and traveled back to 1997 in order to steal my idea. All I’m saying is that my story idea was both viable and marketable. Maybe the version I would have written back then wouldn’t have been (my writing has come a very, very long way since then), but the fact that I let doubt and negativity keep me from writing it at all might just be the epicenter of my current mental block.
Either that or I’m just plain lazy.
I swear I started out with a point to this post, but somehow I veered into an autobiography and a self-analysis that would have made Freud shake his head. Sometimes an unfinished story is just an unfinished story.
But then there are also those times when it’s a blazing neon sign screaming “GET OFF YOUR ASS AND WRITE SOMETHING!!”