Imagine: I am at the end of a dusty road in an old Western town, gun in hand. My book is at the other end, also with gun in hand. We are at a stand still. Who will draw first? A little hokey? Maybe. Dramatic? Definitely. Influenced by the fact that I watched Django Unchained last week? I say amen. But that’s how I feel right now. As I write every day, I strive for 500 words a day, 1000 if I am really lucky. But as of late, I despise everything I write. I nitpick. My characters irritate me. Their actions are dumb. I wonder if anybody will ever want to read my book. And I am afraid to let the person I love most in this world, my husband, read it.
I am not asking for sympathy. I know this is part of the process. My husband reminds me every time I complain that I can rewrite at a later time what I don’t like, to just keep writing. And he is 100% right. So I write a little bit in the morning. A little bit in the afternoon. And if I am feeling ambitious, a line or two at night. This is a stage. Hopefully sooner rather than later I will be back to liking what I put down on paper. Until then, I will leave you with this:
If you lack confidence in setting one word after another and sense that you are stuck in a place from which you will never be set free, if you feel sure that you will never make it and were not cut out to do this, if your prose seems stillborn and you completely lack confidence, you must be a writer. If you say you see things differently and describe your efforts positively, if you tell people that you “just love to write,” you may be delusional.
Thank you John McPhee.