So here I am thinking that I should really, really write more. That I am thinking far too much about the writing bit without doing the doing bit that is writing itself. Had this book in my head for longer than I care to remember. So many notes, so many random notes, so many random notes that are now crumpled up pieces of paper residing in the bin next to my desk. Part of it is a 'life' thing, too much of it getting in the way. But that sounds like an excuse, even to me. So I better get on it.
Got a pile of notebooks right here next to me, gathered over years. I love notebooks, I'm a notebook nerd but by and large they are all untouched. It's like I'm afraid of the empty page. Like its taunting me and I'm letting it get to me. It's a nagging feeling this, that I need to get over it and now. Need to give life to these echoes in my head, these half formed shapes of a story that's been living with me for years. I know its there, breathing, existing, waiting for me to make it real.
Starting here, need to write more. Need to get all dedicated and
whatnot. Put all the pieces of paper together and find a common thread
that will lead me out of this self-imposed exile from the written word.
It has to be in there somewhere. Those trees did not up and die for
nothing. I need to rediscover my motivation, my characters need to
rediscover their motivation. Lost the plot? Better find it then.
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