Things have been a little silly around this blog lately, read the last two posts and comments, if you don’t believe me. Thank you all for sticking with me. I needed that bit of levity. However, I’m going to go deeper today … though, knowing me, I won’t be too serious about it.
I don’t have a lot of “public” writing experience. All my life, I’ve composed tales in my mind, and I’ve written many of them down, but it’s fairly new for me to expose them to an outsider’s critical eye. So, I’m still working on the confidence angle. I’m easily disheartened by doubt. I tend to believe that every writer knows more than I do about the craft. Well, someone posed a question about one of my characters and BAM! … I’ve been on life support this past week.
I’ve blogged about this before. I knew what was happening, and I was pretty sure it wouldn’t last, but there’s always that sniggling voice in the back of my mind saying, this time I really need to face the fact that I can’t write. Or, at least, I can’t finish this novel. Maybe the whole premise is stupid; the characters are weak, confused, ridiculous; there’s no story; there’s too much story; or maybe not—maybe I just have no clue how to write. Never did. Never will.
But … but … but, I want to write this story. It’s not an important story. It’s not going to change the world, change your outlook on life, or even change the batteries in your remote, but I love this story. I love the characters. I’m passionate about this book. And my passion counts for something, right? NO!!!
Passion counts for a lot.
A couple days ago, I looked through some photos of portraits I’ve done and picked out a favorite to share with someone. It hit me that the reason that I’m proud of that work is not only because it’s technically well executed, but because I felt something about the person. And those feelings came through. That passion flowed into my work. The portrait is alive.
So, I’m back to work now. I’m writing my story, my way … and it’s breathing quite well.