I’ve always wanted to write. It’s been a dream of mine for a long time to have a book published. It’s not one I’ve worked on very consistantly over the years but I love to write and I’ve dreamt of author moments.
I’m trying at the moment to use the daily writing mojo I built up doing the book a day prompts to make a big dent into the novel I’ve been planning to write all year.
I set a goal at the beginning of the year to have a complete draft by the end of the year and unless I get my act into gear that goal isn’t going to happen. I’ve written bits here and there. And I’ve written the same couple of scenes more than once. But I’ve not got anything of substance to show for it. So making that happen is my August goal. Maybe not a finished draft but enough of something down on the page to see the bare bones and have something that could be said to be an attempt at a book.
In some ways it’s going well. In others it’s not. The biggest problem is that I keep reading back bits of what I’ve written and liking them. The smaller bits. The majority of what I’ve written has felt like pulling teeth when I do it and then when I look back I spot things I could change or that are wrong.
So I get worked up and convince myself that actually, I can’t write. I’m never going to be able to write. This is a stupid goal and all the time and money I’ve spent writing and on classes and books about writing has been wasted and just generally what’s the point?
Then somehow I manage to get it together and I write a tiny bit more. And you know it’s no where near as many words I think I need to have written or should have written but it’s words and they’re ok in my opinion and I start to think maybe I can do this.
For a little while.
But then it’s lather, rinse, repeat.
Back to the stressed out I can’t do this.
Who knew chasing your dream could be so stressful?