Usually, writing is my refuge; it's my reason for being. It may sound funny and to some, a bit sad, but I will go to my grave believing part of my purpose for being "here" is to write and to share that writing with others through publication. So imagine what it might be like to believe you exist partially to write and yet the writing won't come.
About a week or so ago, I began work on a new story idea. For a while, I battled all the desperate feelings in my head about what to do next, what can sell, what is a sure-fire hit, and after feeling so desperate, after my agonizing self-hate for not being solo-published yet, I realized that if I don't write what burns in me to write, there is no purpose in writing anyway. With that in my head, I sat and managed to crank out about 4,000 words to a new story that had been churning in my head.
My goal is to push myself to write this book--to push away that desperate need to be published, to push away the jealousy I get when I see friends being published, to push away the pain I feel when yet another editor tells me I don't write black enough despite having a strong story. My goal is to get back to the WORD to write this story as my other stories are being sent to editors. It'll be hard to stay focused because in addition to the above obstacles, my brain is constantly churning out new ideas, which is great, but my twisted brain begins to ponder, "Would this idea be better," which in the end are just questions that put a PAUSE on my current writing.
Every once in a while, I'll share my push to complete a new work. I wrote a novel back in November and spent January through most of March reading and revising and editing. That book is put down and is being sent out. For three months, I've thought about writing, but really haven't done much. Now is that time. I'll need encouragement, so when I post, take time to yell at me, tell me to stop whining and get to writing...I'll need it.