I’m scared that I have lost the passion to write.
Days turned into weeks and those turned into months that I have now sat in front of a blank screen, willing the words to appear. Willing anything to appear. I try and type one word then another, hoping to form a sentence but instead I once again delete what is on the screen. It reads like gibberish. I look over the documents in my folder titled Drafts and can’t remember why I thought that would make a good piece or how I envisioned that being an article.
I have downloaded apps onto my phone. Word prompts. Writing suggestions. All of it and still nothing appears on this screen other than sentences that lead nowhere like a dead end road in the darkness of night. I can only go so far until the thought ends, and I have to turn around. I keep coming back to this same spot. There are times when I have just sat and cried, feeling like I was stuck in some corn maze with no way out. Round and round in circles I go only I always seem to end up at the same dead end. There is no sign pointing me in the right direction.
I am embarrassed to say that I mentor other writers every second Thursday. We gather in a coffee shop, and they all look to me for wisdom on what they should do, how they should go about getting started or staying the course for those that are already in the midst of their writing. I pull information off the net because right now, I have no clue how to lead this group, yet I go every second week to that coffee shop, looking more confident that I feel. Google is my savior to lead this group through their creative journey because I know it can’t have anything to do with me! I am stuck.
Months ago, I felt inspired to put words together. Many words in fact. Enough words that there is a novel that I put down on paper. I hear it begging me to come back and shape it from the mess of words and thoughts it is currently in into a masterpiece. My masterpiece. I want to sit with it and shape it like a sculptor might do with clay, into the work I know I am capable of, but I am scared.
There, I said it.
I am scared.
I know why I am this way and I fully understand that I did it to myself. I began to believe that negative voice in my head that was telling me that my work was not good enough. Here I sit, nothing on paper in a few months because I type then delete. Type. Delete. It’s a new dance that I am in and one I am not crazy about. My confidence eroded a little more every time I tried to put words on a page till one day I looked at my first draft of my novel and convinced myself that it was shit. Nothing more than words thrown at a paper. Some stuck. Some didn’t.
Who am I kidding? I am not a writer! I cannot do this! There is nothing in that jumble of sentences that is salvageable enough to build off of! Not a damn thing. Right?
Then I looked at it out of the corner of my eye.
Well, maybe this sentence here is good. And look at this idea over here. On page 27, there is a good use of grammar. I could probably edit this to make sense. Wait! No! You are not a writer Deb. Stop it! Stop this nonsense and get back to work! But maybe there is something to build off of.
Maybe Hemingway was right.
And all the other writers I look up to that struggled just like I am struggling now.
A masterpiece is not just thrown together. It takes energy and commitment. It takes riding that emotional roller coaster, sometimes without a seat beat. It takes tears that you think you are going to drowned in or choke on. It takes courage that you never knew you had.
It takes all of this to look at what you have started and believe in that initial dream you had. The dream that one day my name would be on the cover of a book, sitting on a self in a bookstore. My masterpiece would be available to people to read my words and hopeful relate, even just a little.
And with that thought, it is time once again to pick up my dream and once again begin to shape and mold it into the masterpiece I envision.