This last week I have been forcing myself to focus. I got off track for a while and decided I needed to clear my head and figure out what was going on with me. For some reason I had convinced myself to stop writing the novel. INSANE, I know. I just couldn’t bring myself to put pen to paper (yes, I’m a purist that way).
So, what did I do?
I purchased a workbook on writers block. It is meant to help you figure out why you convince yourself to pause in your writing career.
I came to a very odd, and albeit confusing conclusion.
I don’t want to be famous.
I didn’t even know I had this complex until I made myself sit down and hash it out. I am not one for crowds. I don’t like to be the center of attention. I know in the back of my mind that there is the possibility of book signings, conferences, places where I may be asked to do some public speaking. This is what terrifies me. It is not the possibility of not being published. It is not the underlying dread of “Well, what if no one likes it”. Honestly, I am writing this book for me. This is the book I want to read.
I have no delusions of being the next J.K. Rowling. Hell, I have no delusions of being the next Laurell K. Hamilton, but the possibility sends a shock of horror through me every time I consider it.
This can’t be normal.
With this knowledge, I am pressing on. I am eight solid chapters in and I refuse to give up. The novel itself is nearly written. Now, I just have to put the rest of it together and make it what I know it can be.