On The Playlist: I LIVED by One Republic
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I had to make many tough decisions in my life, but one of the toughest ones happened recently. It’s funny how everything you thought you’ve wanted can change, your priorities shift, and you find out that the things that make you happy is really pretty simple.
Writing has been a struggle. Months go by and I can barely squeeze out a page or two. Yet I continue to sit at my desk to will myself to type. Anything. Some days I stare at a blank page and other days I’m fortunate enough to get words down, no matter how crappy they seem in my head. I know if I stop trying to write…I fear I may simply not write. Ever. Again.
This is an ongoing battle writers fight. Life can be stressful and it impacts every part of us. The fear is definitely always there in the back of my mind. The fear of not producing something amazing. I used to write simply because my stories wanted to come out. I wrote for myself, then I wrote for my readers. The more books I put out, the more I noticed that I’m one of those authors that reaches a limited audience and then flatlines. That’s when I started to question myself. That’s when I wondered if my writing simply sucks. Trust me, I’ve read some horribly written books and I always thought I was a better writer than that. Heck, when my head is already filled with insecurities, it’s easy to believe that maybe I am a sucky writer after all. Sucky writer = lack of audience. So what’s the use of putting out more books?
That’s when I realized I needed to step away from deadlines and start from scratch. Start writing for myself again. Back then, I was fearless. When I didn’t give a shit. If someone read my story, great. If no one read them, it was fine with me. Finishing a book was an accomplishment. It made me a better person. It made to see that I wasn’t a quitter. That I persevered. That I achieved something for ME. Wow, I miss that feeling. The adrenaline, the excitement one gets when reaching the very last word―the end of a novel. Pop the cork on the champagne bottle and hand me a box of Ferraro Rocher!
Yep. Writing was therapeutic for me. It was the only thing I felt that I did well. Believe me, I’m one of those type of people who wants to do everything, but never excelled at anything. I get easily distracted, and when I’m frustrated, I move onto something else. Some arts and craft project which would lead me back to the keyboard… SO. Here I am, back at the beginning as I mentioned. I’m working on a story that’s sort of painful to write. It’s dark and it’s beautiful in the sense that the heroine is broken but she’s not going to give up. She’s going to do whatever she can to survive. I’ve decided after this book I’m going to write more upbeat stories but there’s something about this one that I look forward to finishing. I want to delve into the darkness, to draw out all the emotions of my characters and hopefully prove to myself that I can tell a good story.
Whether or not I find and audience, I’m okay with that. I want to challenge myself. I want to write for the pure love of it. I want to feel that rush of finally reaching THE END.