What a dismal title, an acceptance of defeat. I've been working on my novel for a decade. It came in and out of my brain when I was thirteen and I finished it at fourteen, hand written in my Hedwig spiral notebook. I felt like a genius, a prodigy, instead of a little girl with dreams too big for her. When I stopped writing, I remembered that, I was just a girl.
I was twenty-one when I took a second stab at that story. I felt like I needed to get it all down, to give my characters a chance. I changed their names and uncliched them, where I could. I gave them life and depth and darkness, so different from the light and happy go girl who accepted each and every punch with a smile. Instead, my protagonist has the dark and twisty I learned from Grey's Anatomy and too many Stephen King books. My side characters flit between happiness and overwhelming guilt. I'm trying to write reality into a fantasy setting, and in some ways, I think it's working.
That is, when I bother to write in my novel at all.
You see, I feel like I'm new to the writing thing again. I am so needy still, I seek validation at every turn. That's why I'm an excellent and terrible blogger, I revel in the validation of comments and page views. I've been known to refresh a page in the idle hope of seeing once nice thing said about me, a piss poor reflection of my self esteem.
I'm fragile. I need to know that I'm good at this, or to stop wasting my time. I started this blog as a series of love letters to my son, which I still write. I continued this blog as a journal of all the weird and crunchy things I do, which I still try and post about. I've settled into the blog as a prompt brigade, an excuse for me to scour the web to find people who will tell me what to say.
Here I am, writing, but not in my novel. I'm not tying up the lose ends before I hit my big finish. I'm not fleshing out character arcs like I originally intended or delving deeper into my world building. I'm staying up, for one more comment and page view to prove to the world that I might be of some use, after all.
This is a pity party, and a broadcasted one at that. But it's my blog and I'll cry if I want to. I will finish my novel, by this summer, and then I'll edit it so profusely that it won't even resemble what it is now. That's my favorite part, fixing things. I like to make the broken things whole. I wish I could figure out how to do that to myself.
Enough of this. I'm going to go write. Keep me accountable. Make me finish, and don't you dare introduce me to another prompt. I can't help myself.