Yes, I meant it as a question.
If you look closely at where you landed to get here, you will read the truth that is suppose to set me free – I am a blogger who writes.
I used to be a writer who blogged but that felt like a lie.
I used to write more – a lot more. And I liked it. There wasn’t any pressure. Then, I made a fatal error. I grew too confident in what I thought I could accomplish and I set myself up with unrealistic goals.
Here’s the deal.
When I finished the book that was to be my first published work, I couldn’t leave the characters behind. Nothing wrong with that. It happens to a lot of writers. I wanted to stay living in their world – I wasn’t done with it yet. That wasn’t the fatal error. The error was being too greedy, talking myself into thinking I could write a trilogy. No problem. I was certain of the fact, too, even after book two was published. But then things happened – a lot of things I won’t bore you with. So when the writing of book three wasn’t going well – and it didn’t go well a lot – I felt trapped. So I tried to work on one of the numerous other writing projects I have stashed on thumb drives, hoping to garner some sense of accomplishment by leaving the lackluster behind and reaching for something shiny and new. Except…
No matter what I worked on, I felt like a failure – a looser, even. I would get so far on a different project and then the guilt would hit me. How could I do that? How dare I devote my time and imagination elsewhere when there was this giant, angry, steaming elephant breathing down the back of my neck every time I sat down in my chair and rested my shaking fingers on my rather dusty keyboard?
I felt, and feel that way all the time. I’m like an old vinyl record with a big scratch and the needle is just sitting there unable to get over the craze and making that scritch-pop noise in a deafening and endless loop.
The only solace I found – on occasion – was the thought of my favorite author, Harper Lee. She only wrote one book (sort of). But then again that one book was a masterpiece, and I certainly wasn’t in that category. Harper Lee didn’t have to write anything else. She had already achieved perfection.
Other times I would think of George R.R. Martin and how all of his loyal followers would ask when the hell is he going to get on with it? But I’m not him either, and it would only soothe the guilt for a few precious moments to know there are others out there like me, who maybe just don’t want to write that story anymore.
So there’s this tiny little part of me that says, “why bother?” No one knows you. who has even read your books? No one cares if you have an unfinished book you are loathing to finish. No one is clamoring for your next brilliant insight.
So I don’t know. There’s the truth. Has it set me free?
I don’t know.