Where do we go from here?

*resists breaking into You Must Love Me*

I rather feel as if I'm beginning a whole new blogging journey today... it's been so long since I've been on here that it's almost like a brand-new blog.  You can just picture me being Chauvelin in a long beard saying that I have no memory of this place.

Guilt is the main reason I haven't been on here.  It doesn't stem from my lack of blogging--though if I had more of a conscience in that respect, it would--but from my lack of writing in general.  Reading others' writing blogs has only served to increase the feeling of shame.  I'd been about ready to trash all my documents and go hide under my bed until any and all writerly feelings had passed me by.

That is, if my bed were high enough off the ground to actually hide under.  Which it isn't.  I can fit shirt boxes under there and that's about it.

I think every writer struggles with self-doubt from time to time.  You can't cure it by grinning cheesily at yourself in the mirror and telling yourself to hold your chin up and just keep swimming.  I know, because I've tried that.  You can't cure it by reading other people's writing blogs or manuscripts and hoping you'll absorb some of their inspiration by osmosis.  Trust me on that one, too.  That one in particular will only make your symptoms worse.

So what's the cure for that feeling of inadequacy where writing is concerned?

To be honest, I don't think there really is one.  I don't think any writer will ever arrive at the place where he or she can sit back and say, "Yes, good, I am now the best writer I could ever be and I will never doubt myself or lose inspiration or be unable to think of anything to say ever again--goodness, look at the time, I better go feed my unicorn."  I mean, that would be a ridiculous thing to say.  Unicorns don't even exist.

But though you may never conquer writer's block, there comes a time when you realize you simply can't give up.  Or at least, that's how it was for me.

I kinda wanted to give up.  A part of me wanted to say, "You know what, I'm no good at this balderdash and I'm going to push it away for good and find a new hobby.  Besides, I don't really have time to write anyway."   And yet a bigger part of me wouldn't let myself do that.  Because like it or not, words are in my blood.  (Or in my brain, anyway.  That sounds less weird.)  I can't escape from writing.  Every thought, every emotion has to be formed into a sentence before I can let it go.  Sheesh, I narrate my own actions in my head.  In third person, no less.  Everything I do and see and feel and hear points back to writing somehow-- whether it's giving me an idea for a character or providing a snippet of dialogue or posing a plot question or just making me want to put it into words for no reason at all.

I can't escape writing.
I don't want to.

I can't rid myself of the dragons that say You'll Never Be One Of Them.  ("Them," of course, refers to the literary giants such as Jane Austen and her ilk.)  But I don't have to listen to them.  At least not all the time.  I can't always write what I want to write.  I can't always move past guilt and writer's block and lack of inspiration.  But I can be a writer.  I can put words on a page.  Those words can stink, but they're still words, and each one that I type brings me a little closer to a finished book.

So here I am, back again, taking on the world with my laptop keyboard.  I feel pretty invincible right now.  It all seems new again... and I have plots and peoples calling my name.  

I don't know how I possibly managed to desert them for so long.

This Is Not Good

Point the First: I am currently writing a novel.  It's called Only a Novel.  I'm loving it.  

Point the Second: I have a deadline for the completion of this novel.  A deadline--one of those nasty, dastardly things that creeps up slowly on you, ready to pounce like a baby on a forbidden ring of keys.  The deadline isn't the issue here, though.  The issue is actually three issues--three people, to be exact.  

Point the Third: The Three Issues.  The three people who marched simultaneously into my mind, demanding that their story be told... three people who won't go away.  I know so little of their story thus far, and my first response is to tell them all to leave me alone.  After all, I'm busy!  I have a deadline! I haven't time for plot bunnies. 

But they aren't listening.  So here they sit, looking at me reproachfully.  "Finish your novel if you must," they seem to be saying.  "Keep writing... don't miss your deadline... but if you forget about us in the process, We Will Not Be Pleased."

I may as well introduce you to them, so here they are.

Annabeth Creighton

This is Annabeth, the protagonist, who looks like Judy Garland, and really that's all I know about her-- her name, and how she looks.  Well, that's not quite true.  I also know that she's fed up with the war that's going on all over Europe--including the tiny country she's living in (Republic of Something-or-other that I haven't named yet, and Annabeth wants little more than to go back to her hometown in the USA.  Don't let the picture fool you, though-- Annabeth might not be particularly happy with where she is, but she's not the weepy type.  She wouldn't just sit around and mope with her chin on her hand... nope, that's not Annabeth.  (But the picture looks like her.  So... hush.)  Annabeth isn't exactly what you'd call a cock-eyed optimist, but neither is she a Pouting Polly.  Also, she's bossy.  Did I mention that?  Especially where her headstrong little brother is concerned...

Thatcher Creighton

Meet Thatcher, Annabeth's younger brother, who was actually the first person to march into my head... but he dragged Annabeth in with him, and they seem to be inseparable.  Thatcher's fed up with the war, too, but in a different way than Annabeth.  Annabeth desperately wants to leave it all behind and go back home, but Thatcher wants to march in and do something.  The problem?  Republic of Whatchamacallit's army won't take him because of his asthma.  So he's stuck at home writing propaganda articles for his local newspaper and itching to be doing something more.  The trouble is... he doesn't know what.  (Well, I know what, but he doesn't--yet--and so you won't either.  For the time being, at least.)

Peter McTavish

And this is Peter McTavish, an American serviceman stationed in Annabeth and Thatcher's hometown... and, um, he's awesome. 'Nuff said.  Ahem.

I've done nothing more than detail the very barest of bare bones about these folks... but their story just won't go away.  Adventure, photography, espionage, World War II, journalism, disguises, daring rescues, illness, loyalty, confusion, romance, arguments, sacrifice, practical jokes, Jane Austen, wilderness survival, danger, friendship, strawberries... all that and more is rattling around inside my head, spinning itself into a story bigger than anything I've ever imagined before.  You've heard of plot bunnies?  Well, I'm calling this the Plot Heffalump.   Yep.  Project Plot Heffalump... but it's on hold.  ON HOLD, Annabeth and Thatcher and Peter. You heard me.