There will always be hard days. I went through the worst when I got through the re-write of my monster last time. But writing is work. Writing is practice. Writing is a talent. Writing is a desire. Writing is a process. All of those things mean to me tonight is that sometimes not all of them show up. No matter how late or early, how much time I’ve spent away from the beast; sometimes I’m lacking process. Practice. Work. Desire. Or, most importantly, I feel tonight like I am lacking talent. Doubt. But it isn’t actually doubt tonight. It’s plain and simple fact. I am working on my Osondrous piece of the story. And it is hard. Writing through Osondrous was the easy one. Not what I expected but now it does all make sense.
Osondrous was flowing from me. This is my warlord. This is my character who is more like me than any of the others. I can identify with Osondrous and in a thousand ways I have been writing her story my entire life. It was when Constance came into play when I find myself slipping.
When I had written so much for Osondrous, gone through so many words one night I was so tired. And I wanted to share with you the last sentence I wrote, then pressed save and finally quit. And when I opened the document the next day this was it:
As Osondrous entered it was filled with all many of peoples.
lol. Sometimes we do have to laugh at ourselves. Our own ridiculous persistence. That was only three days ago. Osondrous is now tucked into her bed and I am diving into Constance. I have come to a halt. I can force words. I’ve been an author a long time. I am experienced enough now I know how to write so regardless. No matter what. I can write. But I did not expect this of Constance.
Constance is an innocent in my book. Bad things happen to her. She is naive, beautiful and sickeningly young. And she is very happy. She has a suitor and it is with him that I am adding more to her story. Aerick is her man. Her man whose trying so hard for her. This is young love though Aerick is nothing like Constance. He is a soldier, a good solider, and there is nothing naive about him.
But that doesn’t matter. This is Constance’s story.
I am having a hard time slipping into her. I understand her needs and her wants. I know her past. But I don’t feel her. Her words are difficult. Her descriptions are like pulling teeth. I find myself awkward and at a loss.
This is obviously not what I wanted in this last effort into my monster. I fear my words are not flowing no matter what. If I’m not inspired, if I don’t know this character, I’m fucking positive, I won’t be able to give her clearly to a reader.
The truth is that Constance is shallow. She has no experience. No depth. She has so little history it’s sad. I can’t tell you how many times I refrain from typing, “she giggled” for the umpteenth time. I don’t want people to hear me tell them she’s giggling I want them to be giggling too. I want my readers to want to be squirming with glee because we were all there once. Weren’t we?
And I think this is where my child hood is showing. No, I can’t ever remember being like her. Bad days. Things I won’t talk about here. But I think we’ve all faced the fact that no matter how our writing should not be a part of us. It is us. Aunts call. Mom’s need us. Boyfriends urge us to come back to bed. Every moment of my life alters my writing. I have trouble writing Constance because I was never a Constance. In fact I’m afraid my descriptions of Constance will come off as mockery. And Constance deserves better.
So, here’s to having a bad writing day. Even though it was beautiful here. We got a fantastic thing done in our lives that makes everything shine. Regardless. This is a bad writing day.
I hope tomorrow, after I’ve worked on it in my sleep. After I work on it while I tape and bed the drywall upstairs and while I make dinner and we get groceries at the little store down the street. I will have found a heart for her. Where I can write unflinchingly and without judgment. Where I can honestly say not only do I understand her but that I also may have been her once, at least in my wildest dreams.
So I’m letting him call me to bed tonight. I’m allowing myself to be dragged away because I am accomplishing nothing here right now. Tomorrow will be better. It has to be. I have to believe that I am a good writer. I am an accomplished writer. Damn it, I can write Constance, and tomorrow I will.
