That means it must still be Winter. Likely January. So I'm totally on track as far as blogging about the novel I'm writing, and, well, writing it.
*looks at calendar and makes face of mock surprise and actual horror*
It's March. The 23rd. It's March 23rd. It's mid-March. It's Spring.
*looks at open doc and sees no outline, no brainstorming, no character profiles and makes a face of mock surprise and actual horror*
For all my good intentions, I've got nothing. More accurately, I've done nothing. I got through the shiny and new phase of 'novel writing'... you know, the part that isn't actually writing at all... the 'set-up.' I talked about writing. A lot, actually. I had a long, detailed phone call with Holly, a fellow aspiring author, about our plans. I made plans. And then...
This is disappointing, but not really surprising. The road to hell has been paved and repaved with so many good intentions that it's actually an elevated highway now. I really planned to start on the novel right away.
So what happened?
Honestly... I'm petrified. I think I'm not supposed to admit that. I'm supposed to be brave, fearless, and have this 'I can do anything' attitude, right? But I'm scared. I'm afraid I don't know how to do this. I'm afraid I'm not a good enough writer. I'm afraid to pour this much of myself into something, to so completely bare my soul on pages, only to have someone (anyone, EVERYONE) say 'I've seen better.'
I'm a huge baby. Just ask the poor nurse who has to draw my blood. I cry. It's a little pathetic, and a lot funny. I've given birth... twice... but the idea of a needle? *shudder*
Okay. So. What's the plan? How do we move forward from the fear?
I have not a clue. But the fact that I even logged into this account today means I'm still here. I may be paralyzed in the corner, clutching my woobie and rocking, but I'm here.
Some days, all you can do is show up. So today... I did.
End note: This is where you kick my ass and tell me to get off it and write something :)