I have to get some words down on the page, now, because I haven’t been taking any time to work on my second novel. And I’m starting to wonder what is wrong with me. Where is the girl who loves to write, wants to be a writer, and loves to escape into the story world I created?
I try to assuage my guilt over not working on my novel by reminding myself that I spent eight years writing my first book in my head, mentally writing the rough chapter outlines, forming my characters, and creating plot. Maybe I’m just doing that again now? Or maybe not. After years of just thinking about a novel, I wrote a thirty page beginning that was discarded. I switched from thinking I was writing for adults to writing to a junior/young adult audience. Then I rewrote the entire first chapter, and yet I persevered. Now my first novel is done. I was so enamored with the characters I created that I wanted to keep going. Hence my current work in progress, a companion novel/sequel was born.
During those eight years, we moved to a new city, I changed careers after fifteen years in the same field, and then went back to university after a ten year break. I discovered a new specialization in my course work, and eventually got to bring my novel idea into a classroom setting which provided the perfect environment to get it done.
And now my writing seems to be hanging by a thread, relying entirely on this blog to remind me I am not doing what I want to be doing, namely continuing the narrative I began so long ago. And with this reminder to myself this morning, I’m going to go get to it!