Maybe this is a stalemate.
When you set out on a creative quest, you’re told it will take longer than expected. And somehow you think it uld
n’t quite hold true for you.
For me, it’s my book. I figured that when I finished the first draft last October that I’d be done with the rest come Spring.
Well, I was wrong.
I’ve never really had to work like this, creating something that comes wholly from me.
Past jobs came easily. I cared (sometimes), but not like this. I wasn’t throwing myself on the line. They were easy, calculated risks. I would succeed, all was well.
Pursuing writing has always been weighted against the extreme doubt, the undeniable knowledge, that it relies on my subjective mind and little else.
No hacking or charming my way into this one, no specific skills or formulas to apply. I’m just working with general overall ability.
I’m slowed by the nebulous weight of that requirement. Similar, I guess, to how it would be for any pursuer of creative exposure—a painter, entrepreneur, musician, dancer.
We’re all bound to encounter resistance when trying to put our inside stuff out.
My current book is nonfiction; it’s relatively safe. Still, calculated measures might not equate to guaranteed success. That is not an okay feeling for this star student.
I suppose this is less about being a writer and more about how to be a person.
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