In the past four months I've written under three thousand words. Every single one of those 2,789 words were a struggle. Like I had to make an incision in my skin, break apart a piece of my bone, and write every word by hand in my very own blood.
And they suck.
These measly 2,789 words that I struggled so hard for. I already know that I probably will get rid of at least 2,000 of them. It took me so long and it was so hard to get this small amount and they will end up disappearing by the delete key.
I feel as if a part of me is missing. This part of me that made me a writer. This part of me that could write. This part of me that could sit down and let the stories that were bouncing around in my head flourish on a computer screen. This part of me that could believe in myself enough to believe that I could do this.
Now all I have are the stories bouncing around, the voices in my head, and a paralyzing fear.
A fear that won't allow me to write.
And I'm not sure if I completely understand it. So, I decide to write it down. Try to push it out, get it out, shove it out, so that I can do what I love to do. So, I can do what I need to do. Because the more I stay away, the harder it gets, the worse I feel about myself.
It all compounds upon itself. These feelings of self doubt. These feelings of worthlessness. These feelings of not belonging, of not really being a writer. Of not being good enough. Of never succeeding. Of never getting an agent or never getting traditionally published. Of always being suck right where I am and where I've always been.
Am I where I always have been?
In the just over 4 years I've been writing I've written: three full books, two collaborations, one short story, have three partial books, and have too many ideas in my head to ever stop. I have self published a book with a friend, which has done better than I ever expected it to and my short story is in an anthology for charity.
Four years ago I only had an idea in my head that I had to write down because there was no other option.
So where do I go from here?
I can quit. I can give up writing all together. Tuck away my stories and hide away my notebooks full of ideas. And loose that integral piece of me forever
Or I can fight.
I can cut open a vein, poor some blood into a bowel, grab my bone quill and write one word a day if I have to.
I can remember why I'm doing this and I started doing this ... for the stories. It didn't matter if it sucked or not, I just wanted to get the story out. Out of my head and on the screen. I wanted the story to live for someone to read it and love it as much as I did. I wanted to set my characters free.
And I still do.
So, I will stop worrying about how many words I write. I will stop worrying about how good it is. I will stop worrying if it will ever get published and get back to basics.
And remember I love it.