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.

Just Pull Off the Band-Aid

"I wanted you to see what real courage is, instead of getting the idea that courage is a man with a gun in his hand. It's when you know you're licked before you begin, but you begin anyway and see it through no matter what."

-Atticus Finch, To Kill a Mockingbird

July 2011 was the month that slammed me with the knowledge that I would never be a writer. Never, never, never never never. I read Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird that month (in less than 48 hours) and the book left me feeling depressed. Not because of the story (which was amazing) not because of its length (only wish it had been longer) and not because of the characters (loved them!) but because of the way it was written. I finished TKAM and decided then and there that I would never, ever be able to write as well as Harper Lee, and I might as well stop trying.

Ah, melodrama.

I felt the same way in seventh grade, when I finished The Bronze Bow by Elizabeth George Speare. For nearly a week, I didn't even touch my journal because I felt it was useless to write anything. A few days later, my resolve broke and I wrote a stormy, dramatic passage in my diary about how much I wanted to be a writer and how that was never going to happen. Then, of course, in due time I completely forgot about all that and went back to scribbling.

I'd like to say that was the only time I ever got discouraged about writing. I could say that, but I'd be laughing too hard at the sheer idiocy of such a statement. I get discouraged about writing almost every week, resolving almost every time to put aside my pen forever. (Sad violin music, please, maestro.)

But then... but then... I did something completely different, in November 2011. In the past I had always come up with an idea for something, scribbled (or typed) a few pages of it, then promptly forgot about the whole thing or else lost interest. Sometimes I'd begin writing something that I was sure would be good--whether it be a short story, the Great American Novel, or a lowly blog post--and would give it up before it was half over because I couldn't think of anything else to say. And then came NaNoWriMo.

When I participated in National Novel Writing Month this November, I was hesitant at first. I didn't think I could really write 50,000 words in 26 days. (It's supposed to be 30 days, but I didn't write Sundays, so I ended up doing it in 26). I started writing, found to my surprise that it wasn't as hard as it looked, and joyfully flew through the first two weeks of writing. Words, characters and dialogue came to me faster than I could write them down, and I was thoroughly enjoying myself.

Then came the third week, and I hit rock bottom. Suddenly everything seemed dry. My story was going nowhere. There was no plot, no driving force, nothing to get this pitiful little not-even-a-novel off the ground. Then I got a cut on my forearm.

That last sentence probably struck you as odd and out of place, but bear with me. I put a Band-Aid on the cut along with some Neosporin and let it heal for a day or two. After a little while, the Band-Aid started to curl at the edges and get damp from soap and water, so I decided to take it off. Naturally, it was one of those super-sticky ones that cling to your skin like a baby koala. (Off topic, but haven't you always wanted to hold a baby koala?) Anyway, after some gentle tugging, I finally closed my eyes, counted to three, and ripped off the Band-Aid in one motion.

It hurt for a couple of seconds, and then the stinging was gone and I put on a fresh Band-Aid. Within minutes, I'd forgotten any discomfort. But some of the analogist (it means someone who likes to make analogies; yes, I made it up) in me was thinking, "Hey, this would make a great illustration."

Because maybe writing is something like pulling off a Band-Aid. Sometimes it's necessary to do it gently and slowly. Sometimes you have to sit back and ponder. But then there are other times when you just need to rip off the Band-Aid... or pour out a couple of pages' worth of words without thinking about it. There are times when you need to just stop quibbling and write. Just write. Maybe it'll sting a little at first, maybe you'll look back later and think, "Ew, did I write that?" But then maybe, just maybe, you'll land at the end of a whirlwind month with two hundred pages in your hands. Two hundred pages that you are actually proud of. (And maybe you'll even look back and say, "Whoa, did I actually write that?")

Who knows? Maybe Harper Lee couldn't decide what to name Scout. Maybe Jane Austen wrestled with dialogue in the Netherfield ball scene. Maybe Charles Dickens had trouble deciding whether he would kill off Miss Havisham or not. This is all speculation, but the fact is that Lee, Austen and Dickens didn't give up. They wrote. They stuck with their stories. They saw them through to the end.

Even if it stung a little sometimes.