Snow. 80s Music. Writing.

It’s Tuesday night and I’m listening to 80s music because I need *something* to keep my mind off the fact that outside it’s snowing again. Honestly, it was a pretty rough day. I finished work completely bagged. I skipped working out and crawled into bed for a quick 30 minute nap which helped.

A bit.

Now it’s almost 9 o’clock and I’m trying to find the energy to open Scrivener and work on my book. I finished the ending on my all day writing fest a couple Sundays ago. It’s pretty crappy but it’s “done” for now. Heavy on the air quotes.

I’ve been letting the thoughts percolate in the meantime. Thoughts like – Why isn’t this book done? Will this book actually kill me? When can I work on something else?

Very helpful, brain. Very. Helpful.

Don’t get me wrong, I still love this world and these characters. I’m just tired but stalling (like I’m totally doing right now) isn’t helpful. This is what happens when you start a book then move on to the new and shiny before the book you just wrote is completely done. And let me tell you, folks, I’ve done that A LOT. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I have somewhere around 9 books all in various stages of drafts. Like I’m literally the worst at sitting down and finishing a book start to finish before moving on.

The worst.

Don’t be like me. Finish your books right away. Trust me.

Writing is–and will always be–the thing I both love and hate in equal measures.

It’s beautiful and torturous.

I want it to be perfect the way it is in my head. But the words never live up. There’s some disconnect between my brain and my fingers. I dream up bewitching words that send my heart into flutters, but as soon as they leave my mind they turn clunky and unattractive.

I can’t express myself the way I want to and it eats me up inside. I see all the flaws. Even writing these posts are enough to make me cringe. I feel rusty and out of practice and part of me wants to give up and pretend like I don’t have characters traipsing through my mind demanding to have their stories told.

It would be easier, right?

Except that’s not true either. They’re relentless, this cast of characters in my mind. It’s not just those from this book I’m working on. No. It’s all of them from all the books demanding my attention. I want to scream

THERE’S ONLY ONE OF ME. I’M DOING MY BEST.

But they know I’m not.

I know I’m not.

I could be better. And isn’t that just the problem? The constant narrative of do better cripples me from doing anything at all. If I do nothing at least it’s not wrong.

But it’s not right either.

Loopty loop. Around we go.

Side note: I looked up how to spell loopty–which isn’t really a word– and it showed up as loopy. Wanna know the sentence they used to explain loopy?

The author comes across as a bit loopy.

Well isn’t that just the truth?

Honestly, that feels a bit like a mic drop.

*drops mic and walks away*