Writing can be a real pain in the butt cheeks. It really can.

I started writing a new book last night. This idea came to me, and before I knew it, I’d written two chapters of what I believe to be an absolutely hilarious and profound work of literary genius.

Yes, I said a work of literary genius.

And then, as I so often do, I ran out of steam. I put my computer away and said I would come back to it tonight. I went back to it tonight, and my mind was closed up tighter than a fireworks stand on the 5th of July. It was void. My mind was void of what to type next.

Two chapters and the book is done. Done.

I searched through my documents folder and found 10, no 11, books that I started and then stopped. A couple of them are really good. There is potential in my documents folder. I used a lot of adjectives and metaphors and imagery and even threw in some sarcasm. They really are pretty good stories just waiting to be told.

The thing is, I’m the only one that can tell them.

And I have no clue what to say.

I’m one of those people that is totally OCD about not finishing what I’ve started. I’m a grown woman, and yet, I still make a chore list daily. I cannot relax until I’ve marked off mundane things like:

*Fold Clothes
*Empty Dishwasher
*Find That Missing Sock
*Pay Bills
*Throw Away Any Miniscule Piece of Plastic That Comes Into Contact With My Bare Foot Today

Not finishing things makes me incredibly anxious. And I’ve got 10, no 11, books that I need to finish.

ELEVEN.

My Lord, I’d be writing for years. Who do I look like? Danielle Steele?

In June 2012, I got an idea for a book whilst driving down the interstate. I’d drafted the entire outline on my drive, which was totally dangerous because I kind of blacked out while I was thinking so hard, and yet I managed to stay in my lane and arrive home safely.

As soon as I got home that evening, I wrote the outline. All of it.

And then I started the book.

I wrote while my children were at school. I wrote while I waited in the line to pick them up. I wrote while pasta boiled. I wrote while my entire family slept. Sometimes I passed out while writing in the plush chair in our upstairs TV room, and I’d wake up to the sound of birds chirping, and I’d start writing again.

Then I edited. I edited at all of the same times that I wrote. And then I edited some more.

And in December 2012, after typing the 76,000th word,  I wrote, “THE END”.

And then I screamed like a banshee and ran around the house with tears forming in my eyes.

And then I posted a Facebook status to let all of my annoyed friends know that I’d finally finished the book that I’d been so obsessed with for six months. I think I got 68 likes, which was more than the Facebook post about finally finding jeans at The Gap that were long enough for me.

I’d never felt more accomplished in my life than I did on that cold December night when I finished that book.

I’m still sending that book to publishers all over the country, waiting on someone to appreciate the fact that I devoted six months of my life to it. That day is coming, I hope.

But what about all of these other books? The protagonists and antagonists and plot twists and adjectives and adverbs and nouns? When will they come to fruition? When will I type “The End”?

It frustrates me. It angers me. It makes me livid that I have these thoughts pop into my head in the first place. It haunts me and taunts me and drives me nuts knowing that I need to check these stories off of my chore list. They are just hanging around there on the list, waiting for me to draw a thick, black Bic pen line through them.

I even thought I should trim them into short stories. I love writing short stories, because, well, I actually finish those. But some of these stories have too many details that I could never tell in 1500 words. These stories aren’t short. They are novels. They are equivalent to that of War and Peace.

I sit down at my computer and the cursor blinks at me. The cursor curses me. It flashes there, all high and mighty, like it’s bored. But the words just won’t come. They came rapidly for the first 2, 3, even 10 chapters, but I run out of steam. I know what I want to say, but I just don’t know how to say it.

I feel a sense of depression in knowing that these stories lived only for a moment- and that no one will ever read them but me. That’s what tugs at me. Not that I won’t profit from them or that they won’t end up on the bookstore shelf, but that my children will never read the entire tale of what once popped into my head and filled me with excitement for a moment and prompted me to write the first 2, 3, even 10 chapters.

These stories will never be told to the ones that I really want to hear them, and that’s tragic.

This writing thing is such a blessing. It’s an outlet, a gift, an escape.

And it’s a pain in my butt cheeks.

 

 

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