Let me take you on a smallish journey.
“Write a book,” they said.
“It’ll be easy,” they said.
Crazy thing is, that “they” are right. It is simple to pull up a word processor and tippity-tap out sentences and ideas. I alone am the master of my domain, from sarcastic teenage responses to editing out cliché descriptions.
The part that “they” don’t know about is everything else. Writing articles, blog posts, and a book while working a full-time job, a weekend job, being a mom-taxi, Sunday School teacher, and fill-in-the-blank is draining. My writing suffers. And when my characters won’t behave in my mind and keep me up until midnight, tinkering with ideas, the other parts of my life demand coffee.
That woe-is-me paragraph above is nothing compared to the feeling of finishing a chapter of the book I’m working on. Or the sentence that makes me cry while I’m writing it. Reading a critique from a partner that forces me to look at a section harder, to edit and be honest. I love writing bits that make me laugh, imagining Thing 1’s face because I borrowed directly from our conversations.
The thing is that writing is hard. There’s grammar, syntax, plot, blah, blah, blah. Edits and critiques that give me whiplash.
I look at drivers in cars and wonder why he is staring into the distance. Or why the sad, deflated balloon landed against my fence. Did it blow down from a birthday party? A baby shower for a couple who finally is expecting after years of infertility? Was it released to remember someone’s dad, grandpa or sister?
This is why I love writing the stories in my head. Yes, it’s hard. Yes, I stay up way past my bedtime. But, if you happen to be up way past your bedtime, shoot me a message on FB. I may be up too.