Saturday, January 1, 2011

Plans and Pale Pink Shoes

I am, by nature, a planner. A list maker. A details person. I love plotting and planning and getting ready for things. I also love shoes (relevance comes later). This venture seems to be no exception. 

Aspiring author email address - check. 
Aspiring author  blog - check (obviously). 
Aspiring author twitter - check (@rdavidsonwrites) This actually marks my fifth or sixth twitter. Clearly, housekeeping falls lower on the list than social networking. 
Aspiring author facebook page - check (please don't tell the people on my normal facebook, as I never go on there. Sorry, Mom.)

Plot - um, half formed and subject to change, but yes. 
Characters - they're coming together. 
Title - well, I think so, but I've changed my mind four times since yesterday, so we'll call that 'in progress'. 
Outline - don't give me that look

Has it become clear yet that I have a tendency toward Clueless-esque "Ooooooh project" moments? It's true. I do. I adore starting things. Everything is new, and shiny, and untarnished by the I don't have time for this or the I'm not feeling it moments that life inevitably brings. It's like new school supplies. 

Hell, it's like new SHOES. Perfect. Pristine. Encased in their box, just waiting for all the outfits that they might be paired with. Humming with expectation. 

What? Your shoes don't hum? Is that really just a me thing?

I'll note here, I have no less than eight pairs of shoes that have never come out of the box. And I love them. More than that, I'm in love with them. Or at least, I'm in love with their possibility. 

The reality of those shoes... they will likely never be worn. Because pale pink suede mules with a kitten heel? Well, they'd get dirty. And then they wouldn't be perfect anymore. And then I wouldn't want to wear them. And then they would just be this thing that I used to have, that used to have potential, but now... doesn't. I have more than a little fear that this book will become another pair of white eyelet ballet flats in the back of my closet. 

Right now, it's in my head. The ideas come and I don't have to do anything with them, they just float and dance with each other and make connections in there. And it's perfect. There's no wrong yet. There's no tarnish. There is no... mess. 

But once I start? Once I leave the fun and shiny business phase of account setup and talking about what I'm doing? Comes the actual doing. 

Doing is hard. Doing means letting go of the perfect possibilities and dealing with the very real realities. 

That I may not have a whole book in me. 
That I may not be able to get what I want to say to come out the way I want it to be read. 
That I could pour everything I have into it and not be happy with the result. 
That I could fall. Repeatedly. 
That I could fail. 

And all of these things make me want to keep this pair of coral satin peep toes in their box, keep them safe, keep them perfect. I want to hold on to the newness and the maybe

But I can't. *deep heavy sigh*

I have to go forward, because I haven't room on my shelf for another unfinished idea. I don't want a life of could have. I want a life of did. 

So today? I'm putting on my white fur-trimmed snow boots (because it's Winter in New England and I'd like to keep my toes) and setting off. This is metaphor only; I'm really going to sit here and at least start my outline.

Even if it pinches a little.