It’s late at night and there are twenty other story ideas that are currently running around in my head, instead of the story I should be working on.
These ideas are impinging on the current story, and somehow are finding their way onto the page.
Writing, cursing, deleting, re-writing, deleting, cursing.
I’m working on the latest book and it is not going well. I don’t have writer’s block, I think it is more a case of self-doubt. It’s why I can’t concentrate.
It’s why I’m thinking about the next story and not staying on track.
This leads me to be over critical of what I have written and much pressing of the delete key. Only to realize that an action taken in haste can be regrettable, and makes me feel even more depressed when I realize the deletions are irrecoverable.
I think I’d be happier in a garret somewhere channeling van Gogh’s rage.
Lesson learned – don’t delete, save it to a text file so it can be retrieved when sanity returns.
I was not happy with the previous start. Funny about that, because until a few weeks ago I thought the start was perfect.
It seems it’s been like that for a few weeks now, not being able to stick to the job in hand, doing anything but what I’m supposed to be doing. I recognize the restlessness, I’m not happy with the story as it is, so rather than getting on with it, I find myself writing words just for the sake of writing words.
Any words are better than none, right?
So I rewrote the start, added about a hundred pages and now I have to do a mass of rewriting of what was basically the whole book.
But here’s the thing.
This morning I woke up and looked at the new start, and it has inspired me.
Perhaps all I needed was several weeks of teeth gnashing, and self-doubt to get myself back on track.