Ramblings Of A Part-Time Writer

I love to write. I wish I could say that I’m a natural writer, but the truth is, I’m not. I have to work hard to get the images I have in my head written perfectly onto paper. After 3 years of writing PROVEN, I am finally at a place that I’m happy with it (with the exception of the main character’s last name, which is a WHOLE other story).

Now I’m on the second of a hopeful trilogy, I am stuck. I love the route that this is going, but I find that there are so many mysteries waiting to be unlocked, and I just haven’t had time to concentrate on it. I have 3 main people I have to rely on to talk things through, but I feel like I’m just beating an old horse when I approach them for questions, so I try not to depend on them too much. I don’t blame them; I blame myself. I place too much pressure on myself for trying to achieve a goal that I have been told more than enough times most likely won’t happen.

I have a blog. I used to keep it up for reasons to let my child(ren) read it in the future for hopefully enjoyable stories they can read about our little family. But I have not really written anything in nearly 2 years. I have so much that I can add, but I’m just not motivated. The blog uploader is a pain with pictures, and people love to see the pictures, and if it’s not just right, then I’m not happy. Also, as much as people enjoyed it, I haven’t had time these days, but also, I just don’t ‘feel’ it. For my friends and family that love to read it, I really need to work on it. Perhaps a 2015 New Year’s Resolution.

I once spent 3ish amazing months in a writing group in Maine. It was a Christmas present, and it was one of the most eye-opening experiences I had that could help me with writing. I sat in a room with about ten others, reading bits of our stories, giving feedback, and being immersed in a world of writing. Out of the ten others, only 3 of us wrote fiction. One wrote a book on food, another couple were writing articles for magazines, and one was writing a memoir of her life on an olive farm in Italy. Amazing stories. And I noticed that every single one of them had a way with words, and they were beautiful.

Several times it has been suggested to me to try to write short stories for contests or articles for newspapers or magazines to get some experience under my belt. And while it’s amazing advice, I truly cannot see it happening. My brain has a hard time flipping from one story to another, hence the reason why my road trip story has not been finished yet. And I have maybe an hour and a half to write most days. My passion is on this PROVEN project, and while huge and tedious, it brings me the most joy. And unlike the ladies writing nonfiction in the writer’s workshop, I can only imagine myself writing, ‘and then I went here, and then I went there’…not quite the flow of magical words that they had.

But, the frustrating thing is, just the same as above, I love to write, but I struggle with it. But I have the imagination that is full to overflowing. Several times a day, I zone out of reality and go into my imaginary worlds, eager to find something that just begs to be written. Sometimes a difficult scenario suddenly has a magical unlocking and I can’t seem to write it on paper fast enough. Sometimes I wish I could attach a pen and paper to my brain that can write what is there throughout the day so I can get the exact wording, exact imaging out because my slower hand doesn’t seem to translate it as well. And then the rare moments that I actually get to apply new scenarios to the pages, the opportunity to write comes, and I go blank. Or I’m exhausted. Or life gets in the way.

Writing is my therapy. I have an amazing life with a husband and child that I adore, extended families that would do anything for me, yet without my writing, I seem to be…lost. My home team friend described her depression a couple of weeks ago as, ‘everything in my life is great, nothing is wrong, except I just feel depressed.’ Maybe not her exact wording, but it hit me as very truthful to me, too. I live in a fog, and at times all I want to do is cry…for no real reason.