I’m crying as I write this, just feeling so overwhelmed by it all. It’s not a good place to be and yet I keep
ending up here, hating my writing, the world. everything. And once I’m in that
mind-set, I find it extremely hard to get out of. Everything is a negative thought, hard to pinpoint
even one small happy thing amongst it all. Today was not a good day, with
anything. I got scared and ran away, the fear got too much and I didn’t even
want to try .The smallest of things was just too difficult to do, to
concentrate on and I gave up. I’m good at doing that. I can’t get my head
around something, become impatient when I feel I can’t do it and instead of
trying to keep going, I stop and bury my head in the sand. There have been
small glimmers this month, but they are forgotten for a moment as I dwell on
the place I’m in now. And maybe that’s a good thing in a way? I’m using words
to try and explain my emotions, in the hope that it might make me feel better
and take me to a happier place. Anything is better than this.
It sounds so over dramatic I know. So what if you can’t do it, just do
something else, who cares? You become your own worst enemy. But I do care and
that is why I feel like this. I’ve
reached a point recently where I’m beginning to wonder why I’m even trying to
write this novel. It’s just too big a challenge, I can’t overcome it and I’m
not sure why I even bother. It’s all taking too long and because I didn’t get
things right at the start, I’ve only made it worse for myself.
As I started to read through my first and very messy draft, it became
glaringly obvious. It was a daunting and mammoth task, of my own doing, and I
realised that I had an awful lot of words that won’t become the final story.
Was it just a huge waste of time, all that toiling and scribbling? I’m beginning
to wonder. It was hard to stomach as I scanned over the first 100 or so pages
of type face knowing deep down that most of it won’t be used and wondering
where my story really begins. It’s a huge learning curve and I’m firmly stuck
at the bottom, not able to get out, drowning in what I thought I wanted to say.
All novels manifest themselves as you work on them, I get that and I can
see that’s what’s happened the longer that this story has taken. It’s evolved
so much since I began that I don’t recognise some of it. Even as I read over
and attempt to jot down events and where I see them now, a good thing, I still
doubt myself and that I will ever finish it. But if I didn’t care so much, I
wouldn’t get so upset. I know what I need to do, it’s finding the courage to do
it. And that’s the part I’m struggling
with. I feel I’m not good enough, as I follow my peers and see them doing well,
and I’m cheering them on, but also jealous as I feel left behind. It’s one of my
worst character traits, my impatience and that of constantly comparing myself
to others. It’s a vicious circle that is a constant struggle to try and break
out of.
There are small windows where I have a good day, some weeks, months are
better than others. For me, this has not been one of my best. Okay so I’ve
finally caught up with myself, but it only leaves me with more words to wade
through, and a frustration that I haven’t put pen to paper for a while, not
really. Does that count as writing? I keep telling myself that it does, that as
I type I’m thinking, discovering new words as I build on scenes, ones that
maybe I had forgotten about. And it is a good feeling, as the story unfurls at
my fingertips, not from the pen, as it’s not a way of writing that I am used
to. There have been scribbles, ideas and longer parts too, but then I have realised
as I work on a scene that the way it is written doesn’t work for my story, is
not my voice. I’m getting carried away with something that is not me, not what
I want to write. But at least I have realised that, and am trying to put it
right.
I’m constantly inspired by other writers, in different ways. A tweet
that has so few characters but yet says so much, or an article that tells me I’m
not alone. I just need to keep those moments of clarity from when I read or
hear those words and bring them to mind for times such as these. I’ve been
lucky enough to attend two literary events in the last couple of weeks, in fact
two consecutive days. Both were very different writers, both inspiring me in
different ways. But one thing that
stands out from all of the writers that I’ve met, chatted to or just followed
online, is that they didn’t give up, even when things were bleak. So I may be
in a bad place creatively at the moment, but hopefully if I just keep showing
up, I’ll come out the other side. Slow progress is better than no progress
after all.
