Do you ever try to talk yourself out of writing? Tell yourself that it's beautiful outside, better to go out and play in the Sun? Better to socialize with friends, and increase your skills in your paying profession?
Do you stop and wonder why you keep plugging away, hours on end, on something that might only sit in a box, or should I say, sit on your hard drive.
When you hear about some debut author getting some lovely two or four book deals with a big publishing house, do you feel like you have your nose pressed up against the window, looking in. You can see the action, but you can't hear the music, then someone comes and drags you away. On the same token, the news is encouraging, at least invitations are still being sent out.
Do you ever try to convince yourself to stop? Try to give yourself reasons why you should, but then a yearning wells up inside and for as much as you want to stop and quench the agony of defeat that deeply embedded need to release the stories that fill your head clammer to the surface demanding to be told. You want to cry because you want to hurry and write it all down, but daily life latches on. As you charge ahead, it pushes back, and sometimes it knocks you over. When you get up, you realize that you've been knocked several feet back. If it isn't knocking your over, it stands before you, its cold steal hands pressed against your forward, laughing, while you run in place. You try to skirt past on the left, but the pressure against your head is still there for barrier easily moves with you.
You stop, look around, and you're crowded in with a sea of other stumbling, running in place hopeful authors who are also trying plod forward to that one open doorway that is rumored to be miles ahead.
If at first, you cannot sell . . .
1 week ago