Habits

 

Aren't habits odd things?

A few months ago I said I was going to write what I wanted to rather than what I thought I should. Through September I managed to stick to that, jotting down a few bits and pieces with no idea if they were useful or relevant to anything. So far so good, yes?

Then October arrives, my inbox fills with reminders about NaNoWriMo beginning on the first of November and away I go, planning and wondering what to write about. I dredge a story idea from all the fragments of earlier ideas and set about writing 1667 words a day. Then I pause, remember that this is just a habit and I stop. I don't want to write that story. Or rather I think it might be a tale for another day. I stop doing NaNoWriMo and remember that I'm only writing what I want to, not what I think I must.

So, habits, right? Easy to form, hard to break.

I hope I've broken this one now but as I'm such a people pleaser it's possible I'll have to give myself a good talking to again in the not too distant future!  

September and I'm resetting (again)

It's the first of September, a date with special significance for my family being my late father's birthday. I always feel reflective when the birthdays of those who have passed come around and this year is no different.

It's also the first day of autumn, officially, and I adore autumn. I love misty, damp weather and the snuggly feeling you get when you come inside from the cold. 

So pardon me if I use this as a random point in my life to reset and begin again.

Everything up until now has been half done and unfinished. I have so many unfinished things on my hard drive that it's verging on embarrassing. Again and again I find myself looking at a file that I don't want to open because I've lost faith in it/me.

So, reset time. Another chance to evaluate what I really want to do and why. Another moment to look deep into my writing soul and commit to doing this thing. And I've surprised myself. I looked, was really, brutally honest with myself and it was different this time. 

So I'm believing in what the universe is telling me. I'm putting all the half finished things aside. I'm closing my notebook, beginning a new one and writing for the sheer joy of it. Publishing be damned! I'll sort things out on my terms, which I think will be self publishing of some sort. I'm not bothering about agents. I'm not going to worry about a synopsis or a pitch or beta readers or any of that guff. I'm writing what gives me joy and sharing it in my own way.

So look out for what's coming, read it if you fancy, enjoy it I hope. I'm going off piste and it's scary and exciting at the same time.

Thank you Super Blue Moon for energising me. 

Time for a rant

 I'm having a moment, please bear with me. Don't feel the need to comment as most of this is just me venting and spitballing into the blogosphere.

In January I went on a lovely weekend writing retreat and poured out 7,000 words of a fully planned story. I felt energised and ready to crack on with it. Since then I've managed 500 words and the feeling has gone.

I'm starting to doubt what I'm doing this for. I struggle to maintain a routine, I flit from idea to idea never finishing anything and I doubt that I have what it takes anyway.

So far so normal.

Yet... But... However...

I know that my procrastination is strong, perhaps the strongest force known to mankind. I could have a PhD in procrastination if I could be bothered to study for it. So I am well aware that I am procrastinating. Even sitting here writing this blog post is a form of procrastination. And I'm pretty sure that it all stems from a fear of failure. All through my life I have avoided doing things because I'm afraid that I will fail. And if I don't even try, well I can't fail then can I? So I am aware that I am avoiding writing because I am afraid that I'm really not as good as I would like to be or even think I might be. And if I don't sit down and write, well there's nothing to share is there? So no-one will find out I'm not that good really.

Round and round and round I go, procrastinating again.

But I really want to succeed, whatever that means. I want to have at least one finished, edited piece of work that I am proud of. And I'll never have that if I don't finish something. And I'll never finish anything if... I think we all get the drift now, don't we?

I've read all the advice, I've agreed with all the experts about the importance of a good writing routine and yet I still faff about, not turning the laptop on and not writing anything. 

So, what am I doing it for? When I actually do it, of course. That's the question I've been asking myself and so far myself has failed to come up with a satisfactory answer. I still have the fantasy of wishing to see my name on a book cover somewhere. I'd also rather like to submit a successful entry to a writing competition. But is that all I want? Surely at the heart of why most of us write is the desire to tell our stories, even if no-one else ever reads them. And I do want to tell my stories.

It's a conundrum. 

The end result is that I have to strip it all back to the bare bones, to get to the heart of why I write. And if that means I never share another word or another tale... so be it. I have to tell my stories but I don't have to decide just now who I'm telling them to. Maybe I don't have to have readers? Maybe the telling is the point. However, what's the point of a story that no-one ever reads? I wish I had the answers but I don't. I'm lost and flat and lacklustre, as a writer and as a person. It's hard and I worry that it'll just get harder unless I manage to find my writing mojo again.