I’ve been writing seriously for the last five years and it is only now that I’m starting to see the fruits of the long solitary hours I’ve put in. I’ve got four stories out, more half written, others only a few more drafts away from completion and others in progress.
It’s a juggle of what am I going to spend my time on. But I get to choose because I have no one placing their expectations on what they want me to write. If I want to write a YA I can, a sci-fi with whatever slant I choose, or something else entirely. I’ve yet to be placed in a box and that’s a wonderful feeling.
I’m so unknown that the only articles about me are from myself.
That affords me a freedom where I can write anything and not be restricted to someone else’s idea of what a book should be. For better or worse. The publishing industry of the past will not the same as it is now and the future is somewhat ambiguous. Afterall publishing houses are nothing but a business. And I like writing for fun not as a means of income (but I’ll so totally take all the money I earn from it).
I’ve worked out that just because I was able to write uni assignments to deadlines back in the day does not mean I can do that same for my stories. I found my creative writing classes difficult to wrap my head around creatively considering my stories are more spontaneous and organically forming. But the foundation that degree provided was essential.
The freedom I’m afforded through this path suits me best because I’m the type of person who goes off and does my own thing. Helps that I am a stubborn introvert and a bit of a shit I suppose.
Stop. Start. Stop. Start again.
Zoom, zoom, zoom. Page after page.
Why do some of my stories take longer to write than others?
Is it because I’m just not that into them?
Or maybe they are more boring than my others?
Maybe I was never going to be writing at all today.
I finish a chapter than pause, I start the next one and it says unfinished for weeks. But then I open word again and it’s page after page.
The word count passes 10,000 and I pause again.
Is it because I’m lazy? Procrastination? Writer’s Block?
Is that even a real thing? Isn’t it just a physical manifestation of our sub-conscious knowing that there is something wrong with the story?
I change the story’s direction in my head and I write some more.
I pause, I have doubts.
Maybe a break will do.
Let my grey mushy brain churn my story in my sleeping brain.
Maybe in a few days, I’ll have more to add, even though I kind of know where my story is going anyway.