No Greater Agony…I’m Dying to Write

I’m working 50+ hours a week, plus a 2-hour daily commute, with one day off a week; the pay is nice, but I’m sorely missing my free time. I know that I’ve written often that in order to be a writer, you have to make the time, even if it is just a few words a day. And a few words a day, I have been writing. It hasn’t made it onto the computer yet, due to the randomness of time and scheduling, but I think I’ve made about fifty pages? Which is something.

But, the fact is, I’m born to be a writer. I live to do it. There is nothing so precious to me as the gift of telling stories. Well, perhaps I over exaggerate. I’d give it up for those I love, but…I’m utterly lost when I don’t have hours upon hours to do nothing but write. There’s a part of me that I lose, and when I lose sight of that part of me, I am cranky, depressed, always wanting to be left alone so I can do nothing but daydream. As a child, I would spend hours on the swingset as a way to live my stories as though a movie were playing in my head. I did this because I didn’t have time to write them down, or, more often, because I thought the idea was not up to my standards. It was a mash-up of  genuine and stock characters, a plot not terribly sensical, or just something I generally did not feel was worthy of my time to write.

I have two large drawers filled with binders from stories in high school. During the 8th-12th grade, I wrote a trilogy I never was contented with the editing on. My girlfriends were the bookish sort, one of whom had a library for a bedroom, and she repeatedly told me to publish my writing–even then. She said she’d read much worse. And she was right, I knew–I’d read worse myself. But I wouldn’t ever submit anything, because it wasn’t my best.

Feral Magic isn’t my best. It’s the best I could do at the time, but I know I can do better. I don’t have a set plan for how I can do better, or what I would do differently, I just know that it’s one of many, one that is going to become lost in the sheer mass of titles. How do I know this? Am I being cocky or self-flattering? No, I just know myself. Every day, I tell myself a new story, and I finish it. The problem is, it’s all in my head. What good does it do when I’m the only one who can enjoy it? I’m dying to pick up a pen again, to really finish my thoughts, to find my software to finish The King’s Mutt, and to keep on going with my writing.

That said, this blog is part of my writing. I have the blogging bug. Not blogging itches almost as much as not having a chapter a day finished. I just went back in my archives, when I wasn’t sure what it meant to be a blogger, how it worked, or anything. This has done more than given me access to the public and to a list of people who are interested in what I have to say; blogging has helped to define me, it has helped to record my journey from a writer to an author to an indie publisher.

That said, Maya Angelou has already said what I’ve failed to come out and say:

There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.

Here’s to a fast tomorrow so I can enjoy the day after by burying myself in pages of writing!

I’m going to go steal some sleep now.

Your Dearest Nicolette.


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