Doubters Gonna Doubt

I haven’t written for ages. I haven’t felt motivated for weeks, neigh, months.

I’m worried that I am losing my writing force. I’m starting to wonder whether I should just enjoy my free time and read, gym, live life… instead of trying to squeeze in time to write books.

Really, I am pretty close to considering just dropping it. Would it be so bad to let it go? I’m starting to wonder why I’m even bothering tbh.

I could concentrate on other things instead. I might even excel at work and grow in other areas. I just don’t know if writing these books is giving me pleasure anymore.

Stressing about not writing is huge. I would love to have that weight lifted. Stressing about writing for nothing. I would love to have that weight lifted.

Would I miss it? Missing it… Missing writing… Missing the creative process…

I think that I would. I can’t say that I wouldn’t. I do find pleasure in the process. But it’s a passion. Right now, I don’t see that passion ever baring fruit.

So what’s the point?

I don’t like the idea of missing the opportunity. Looking back and regretting not writing. That scares me. But if the process isn’t fun, and there is no end result… then this is just torture.


I think I missed a trick in Crystal Green Book 1.

I think there’s an entire scene missing that should be in there… a scene between Crystal and her aunts where they discuss what a witch is. Sounds obvious, but it isn’t there. There is a small gap in the timeline of the story where it could fit. And I think that it makes sense from a story point of view.

The idea has been building in my mind for a week or so now, so today I spent some time with my notebook and jotted it out…


I’ve just answered my own question.

I’ve just had a moment of clarity.

I couldn’t turn off being a writer even if I wanted to.

Yes, life would be easier. I’d have more time for other things. I’d be more relaxed. I’d excel in other areas of my life.

But I wouldn’t be me. Not entirely.

I just wrote a paragraph of this new scene, a paragraph based on my notebook work this afternoon. It’s only a few simple sentences, nothing special at all. But then, it is completely special. Nobody else has ever written these words in this order before. Nobody else has done the thinking behind them. No-one else made them mean what I have made them mean.

I am a writer.

I will suffer for it for the rest of my life.

But I can’t stop being me.

 

 

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