After my meeting with the Writer in Residence program author I have been working hard on pushing through and trying to finish my story. I think if I went back to change all the little things niggling at me it would side track me and take up too much time. Right now I want to get through and get it all out there. It blows me away how one can work on a novel for pretty much their whole life and not feel complete. I hope I can finish within a year or two.
The excitement of writing is seductive. Just like a drug, I have an urge to push, create, mould, tear it down and start again. Perhaps it’s a God complex? Either way, I can’t stop, nor should I, this has been an incredible relief in my life. I haven’t felt this right in a long time and it’s worth the peace of mind it brings.
I cling to my writing as a sailor does to a raft in a storm. Each breath reminds me that I am alive and that my purpose is to get this story out. Something compels me and I owe it to myself to complete it. The writing feeds me and nourishes my soul, who can give that up, why would you have to? Very determining factors who want nothing more than to crush dreams that’s who. I’ve built a wall and I fully intend on keeping it strong to maintain my sanity. Writing is part of that therapy that I subscribe to and it’s been my essence for a long time. Going through with my book, I feel like I’m starting to finally live and acknowledge the slumbering part of me that was always there.
I say to myself, “Let’s do this” and the scary part is I answered back, “10-4 good buddy.”