Am Writing

I've been working, every weekend, for hours, on this novel. Drinking my weight in tea, planting my ass in a chair, listening to music until my ears are sore from the earbuds. It's slow going, this editing process. Cam said it was like dumping a story on the table and digging through the bloody guts. I would add in the dark with a penlight. It's almost physically painful and is mentally draining and for some odd reason, I keep doing it. Weekend after weekend.

It's an endurance challenge, a test of my stubborness. Do I want it bad enough? Whatever "it" is? Do I want it more than bike rides, trips to the beach, sleeping in, blogging, gardening, canning, all of the things that make me who I am?

Yes.

I want to finish this story, have others meet these characters. I want them to laugh with me, cry with me, and find hope with me. I want it with a desire that makes my stomach churn, my fingers shake, and my teeth clench when kind people witnessing my self-torture tell me to just let it go.

So here we go. Another weekend. Another five hours in a chair sifting through blood and gore to find the jewels of the story.

Another weekend of pushing aside the lingering fear that I'll never finish, that the story isn't enough, that the world existing in my head will fall flat under my novice fingers. Another weekend of ignoring the voices of doubt constantly whispering in my ear.

Another weekend of looking at the people I admire, their books sitting on my shelf. Another weekend of hunger to join them. Another weekend of hope and determination. Another weekend of knowing, knowing I'm a writer and that I'd better get my eyes off of Mandyland and back on my characters.

Another weekend where I am writing.