It's Snowing

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...


Nothing.


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.


<3 Bec


End note: This is where you kick my ass and tell me to get off it and write something :)

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. 


-Bec

Am I really doing this?

It's New Year's Eve day, and I'm sitting here in my lumpish oatmeal colored cardigan, drinking coffee and thinking to myself, "Self, you must be nuts." A novel? I want to write a novel?! 


Yes. I want to write a novel. 


I'm not sure I even know where this want came from, but I have it. Really, it's more than want. It feels like need. I need to write. After going years without doing so, and finding my way back, I write because I need to, because it makes me feel complete. 


I've always been a writer in some fashion, even when I didn't write. I think I was thirteen the first time I wrote 'a book.' It was horrible drivel, with the main character named Sunny Summers. I might have been in my I hate being a redhead, why can't I be blonde phase. For the record, most redheads do not make good blondes. I know. I tried. 


I wrote poetry in high school that if I read now, I would cringe. I wrote long winded love letters in my early twenties to my then boyfriend/ now husband. I wrote silly, ranting blog posts when I discovered MySpace. And while there were droughts in between, where I would go a year or more without writing, I always came back to it because it is home for me in a lot of ways. 


Over the last eighteen months, writing short (and sometimes far too long) stories, has given me back my passion for writing. The experience of creating something with nothing more than my own words is unlike anything else. I raise my children with my hands and my heart. I love my husband to the depths of my soul. I keep my arms full of my friends and my family. But when I write, when I take the contents of my brain and make them into something... I feel a different sense of accomplishment, one that I've grown to love and need and crave. 


So why a novel? I certainly don't have the time. There's a very good chance I'll never make any money at this. I have a history of starting things and not finishing them. And I find myself with writer's block on a very regular basis. So why? 


I don't know. 


Why not?


Because? 


Who knows?


So that when I'm old and grey, or old and not grey because I'm a habitual hair color changer with a great stylist, I can say 'I wrote a book once.' So I can say to my kids 'you can do anything you want, be anything you want, make every dream you have come true' and really mean it because I had a dream and I did it. So that I can call myself a novelist, even if that comes with a disclaimer like unpublished or amateur. 


Richard Bach said "A professional writer is an amateur who didn't quit." 


Smart guy. Let's see if he's right. 


So I'm ready. I'm going to write a novel. Will anyone read it?