Instead of finishing it, I’ve cleaned toilets, baked gluten
free experiments, set up an entire year’s worth of horse show events on
Facebook for my daughter’s team, watched all of the new episodes of Castle on
my iPhone, and started a new Twitter account. I’ve consumed a lot of coffee,
helped assemble 725 nametags for TEDx Columbus, made a new friend, and taught
numerous classes for work. Oh… and now I’m writing this instead of opening my book file.
Yes… I’m sitting on the platform at Procrastination Station
ignoring every train that whistles down the tunnel.
My writing partner once heckled me about getting distracted
so easily. We were in her basement trying to plot out our first novel and write
something – anything – that we could call a beginning. I could focus for only
so long, eventually trying to convince her to go see the new Star Trek movie.
She looked at me as if I’d grown an extra ear in the middle of my forehead.
So you see… I know I get distracted. I know I tend to lose
focus at the worst possible moments. But this is getting ridiculous.
I’m beginning to realize I might just be experiencing not
just writer’s block, but some sort of
writer’s paralysis. What will happen
when the plot curve is complete? As I wrap up the climax and falling action,
how will I know if it is, indeed, finished? And then what? In my head, I can
only see a dark tunnel, leading to who knows where – and not a flicker of light
at the end. I write the last few chapters. I go back and fix a plot hole I know
exists earlier in the book. And then… Then I have to do one of two things:
1.
Put the whole thing aside for a few weeks and
ignore it. (I’m pretty good at ignoring it now, for heaven’s sake. So this
shouldn’t be intimidating…but knowing I have to set a date and come back to it for
editing and eventually finding an agent. This is what stops me in my tracks.)
2.
Find a reader or two. Readers I trust. Readers
who will give me critique, creative criticism…and who will hopefully find a way
to let me down gently if they see clearly what I cannot – if they know it is
just plain bad.
So which one will it be? Virtual shoebox under my bed? Or
courageous leap into handing over my written baby to someone else to examine?
Maybe if I can make this decision, I can focus again. Write
those last few chapters. Carry my characters home.
