Is the Stress of Writing Self-Inflicted?
I confided in a friend that I’m writing a novel, and the point where I’m at is driving me insane. I’ve jotted down my ideas. I know what outcome I want. I know how I want to move the story forward. NO! I am NOT a plotter, I bellow clutching my pantser card.
Know what I heard back from a person I’ve known for 24 years? “If you weren’t so gung-ho about that book, you’d probably feel better.” I wanted to choke him, and I’m not talking sleeper hold.
I know I’m very fortunate. I don’t have to write for my food, home, utilities — you get me. For those who do, I salute you.
Nonetheless, when the main character tips back in his leather chair and rests his Italian leather shoes on the executive desk that I gave him, then grins at me, mute, is that self-inflicted?
The non-writer in me says “You’re arguing with your imagination and you’re losing.
You knew when you started this would be an ultra-marathon, not ring around the rosy. Are you getting bored? If so, then quit! And forget the whole thing. You shouldn’t start something you don’t intend to finish.
My inner scribe won’t be beaten.
I can’t be bored! I envisioned the world, then built it, that takes commitment. Readers should be drawn into the scene. They should read how my characters feel, not just the what they say.
They’re my ideas and my creativity! I’m not losing to myself.
