Sometimes typing flies along and I feel like I’m painting a picture and not typing at all any more. Words flow directly from some place in my brain to the keyboard. I can feel my fingers brush the keys and I hear the clicking as they hit down but it seems they aren’t really there and I’m imprinting my thoughts right into the page I see in front of me.
I didn’t get out today. I did some writing, not enough. Not enough to sell for money, nothing completed. It’s frustrating. When I want to write I get sidetracked all too easily. But, it’s because I don’t know where I’m supposed to go. There isn’t a map showing roads and interesting tourist traps along the way. It’s uncharted territory and I don’t know how to steer this car. I don’t mind the unknown and the mystery of it. I like unplanned side trips when I’m in the car, the real car.
I think I’m having a problem cause I’ve made this too important. It’s not easy to take that first step when you’ve blown it into a massive project which must be perfect and attain the right standards. I can see the end I want but I have no map to get through the middle and I feel trapped and lost at the same time.
Some of it I blame on my past life as a daughter. My Dad was abusive (which shames me cause I actually care) and my Mother would try to make up for it by doing too much for us and trying to smooth it over. It’s so unfair. I wish she could have stayed truer to herself. She is a great Mother, strong and caring and independent. She wouldn’t have become as she did if my Dad had been different. In my early life I was trapped between one parent who made me feel like a loser and another who make me feel I couldn’t change anything on my own. It’s so not who I am. Yet, it is a trap I’ve never yet gotten out of. I tried to read the right books, failed of course. Failed to finish or really start the books and failed to find the right magic words that would give me all the right magic answers to solve everything and let me take back my life.
I’ve got my idea for the book I want to write. I’ve taken several stabs at it. It’s getting nowhere though. It’s all in little bits and pieces on my hard drive and in my head. I don’t have a plan though I’ve tried to find one.
I think I am going to try finding another writer group, yet I don’t see that being much help. I don’t talk about any of this to anyone. It’s too embarrassing. It makes me feel I’m asking for sympathy and trying to convince everyone I’m an even bigger loser than I think I am. I don’t think I’m a loser you see. I don’t believe it anyway.
It’s tough living in my head. At least I’m never lonely up there. Plenty of conversations going on.
Well, back to writing. Or, if the elephants upstairs would get to bed before 2:00am I could go to bed early tonight and I’d like that. I don’t like listening to them scraping chairs, yelling and stomping over my head while I lie in bed. I keep wondering if that floor will just cave in suddenly and I’ll wind up having them just drop in. They certainly seem to be making every effort to do so.