It was awful. This story, this world, all those scenes that had been swirling around in my head for so long... it felt so forced, so false. I had my characters at knifepoint in an alley, forcing them to go through things just so I could say I hadn't given up. But I was a desparate robber who couldn't commit to seeing the act through. I gave up before the finale, collapsing in the dirt, ashamed to continue and embarassed for just how distorted my monster had become.
I experienced another writer's famine, along with the birth of another baby. Now that there were two small children vying for my attention there seemed to be no room for any thinking besides what to cook, what to clean, and who to snuggle. I hadn't read a book that didn't involve nursery rhymes since my first child was six months old, because I felt guilty about tossing cheerios on the floor and generally ignoring him. I hadn't even had a thought about the monstrosity that I had accidentally created. Over that handful of years I had even forgotten to imagine, those wonderful daydreams lost under the demands and workload of being a mother and housewife. Spare time was wasted on the internet; the only thought towards writing was when I was on Pinterest and found an image that inspired me.
Despite my lack of personally engaging in a book, I diligently took my kids to the library once a week. I checked out books for them to look at, books I would read to them over and over again until my first child could recite them from memory. For a while I even checked out sci-fi novels for my husband, who had finished his first draft already. I was sitting alone at a table in the library one chilly morning, watching my kids explore foam blocks and wooden puzzles, when it occurred to me that I, myself, could be reading. I felt momentarily paralyzed by both fear and longing. What should I read? I hadn't given that any thought for almost four years.
The book I ended up choosing didn't really catch my attention, and I left without it. But I had opened a book. I had stepped away from myself and engaged in a world that was new--and yet familiar, the words of another built into life by my own dormant imagination. Somewhere in the years of being a new mother a new idea for a story had stirred, a new land with fresh characters and a chance to try again. When I discovered my mind was in a dazed state, I took that moment to open the doors of my mind and explore what I could dream.
Eventually I found myself standing at the threshold that separates the writers from the dreamers. Conveniently, (or maybe inconveniently,) November, NaNoWriMo, was approaching and with it the possibility of opening the windows and doors of my new idea and letting it spill forth in a mess on the computer screen. I remembered my broken Frankenstein and the underlying shame I still felt in abandoning it. I didn't want to feel that again. I didn't want to take this beautiful idea that I had leisurely come to love and unintentionally destroy it. I knew writing was hard work. I knew there was no easy way about it.
So I sat down one evening, opened a clean document, and wrote. The words came almost tentatively, unsure of where to go and what to do. How could I possibly describe the wonderful setting that I had enjoyed? Never mind that--just write. Just write, just write, just write. I said it to myself over and over again. A thousand words spread down the paper, and I stopped. A week later I sat down and did it again, three nights in a row even, a thousand words each night until I felt as though I was forcing my imagination to keep going. It was torture between writing sessions. The next day I would remember what I wrote and feel dejected. I wasn't doing my story justice. I should have put more detail there, explained that better there. The perfectionist in me reared, crying about the things I would inevitably forget about and miss if I didn't go back.
I refused. I still have. To appease my mind I may jot a few notes down. But I won't change anything, not yet. I haven't written again in about a month. Life is still demanding, especially with the holidays approaching. But I wrote. On my desktop is four thousand words, new and raw and struggling for breath. I will return to it, but I will do so at my own pace. I will do so with patience for myself, for my imperfections and my worries. I will write again, for my heart beats with new longing to create.
And I will do it soon.
Despite my lack of personally engaging in a book, I diligently took my kids to the library once a week. I checked out books for them to look at, books I would read to them over and over again until my first child could recite them from memory. For a while I even checked out sci-fi novels for my husband, who had finished his first draft already. I was sitting alone at a table in the library one chilly morning, watching my kids explore foam blocks and wooden puzzles, when it occurred to me that I, myself, could be reading. I felt momentarily paralyzed by both fear and longing. What should I read? I hadn't given that any thought for almost four years.
The book I ended up choosing didn't really catch my attention, and I left without it. But I had opened a book. I had stepped away from myself and engaged in a world that was new--and yet familiar, the words of another built into life by my own dormant imagination. Somewhere in the years of being a new mother a new idea for a story had stirred, a new land with fresh characters and a chance to try again. When I discovered my mind was in a dazed state, I took that moment to open the doors of my mind and explore what I could dream.
Eventually I found myself standing at the threshold that separates the writers from the dreamers. Conveniently, (or maybe inconveniently,) November, NaNoWriMo, was approaching and with it the possibility of opening the windows and doors of my new idea and letting it spill forth in a mess on the computer screen. I remembered my broken Frankenstein and the underlying shame I still felt in abandoning it. I didn't want to feel that again. I didn't want to take this beautiful idea that I had leisurely come to love and unintentionally destroy it. I knew writing was hard work. I knew there was no easy way about it.
So I sat down one evening, opened a clean document, and wrote. The words came almost tentatively, unsure of where to go and what to do. How could I possibly describe the wonderful setting that I had enjoyed? Never mind that--just write. Just write, just write, just write. I said it to myself over and over again. A thousand words spread down the paper, and I stopped. A week later I sat down and did it again, three nights in a row even, a thousand words each night until I felt as though I was forcing my imagination to keep going. It was torture between writing sessions. The next day I would remember what I wrote and feel dejected. I wasn't doing my story justice. I should have put more detail there, explained that better there. The perfectionist in me reared, crying about the things I would inevitably forget about and miss if I didn't go back.
I refused. I still have. To appease my mind I may jot a few notes down. But I won't change anything, not yet. I haven't written again in about a month. Life is still demanding, especially with the holidays approaching. But I wrote. On my desktop is four thousand words, new and raw and struggling for breath. I will return to it, but I will do so at my own pace. I will do so with patience for myself, for my imperfections and my worries. I will write again, for my heart beats with new longing to create.
And I will do it soon.
