I’ve mentioned before, however, passively that I’m writing a book. Well, it’s true! It’s one of those fanciful somethings I’ve always wanted to do but never given any serious thought to (Much like having a cozy reading nook with a library and a view in my dream house) until last year. I realized there was nothing stopping me from doing exactly that, so rather than another short story, I started. We are about six (6) months and 20,000 words deep at this point and I think it’s going well. Some days, it’s spitting out the ideas and other days it’s fleshing, moulding, editing and shaping those ideas. I’m thriving on the encouragement of those close to me right now. It’s very much needed. All of a sudden, I think my storytelling skills suck. The unwavering support of my loved ones is unmatched. I’m grateful for it.
I have learned and noticed a few things. Hopefully, sharing them might help the knot in my stomach.
Letting My Imagination Reign
I’ve always had a very vivid imagination. Pictures stay with me for a long time and quite often when enough time has passed, I may be unable to determine whether I memory I have of a particular storyline is part of a movie I watched or imagery complied through reading. This probably accounts for my love of historical romance novel. I get to mentally compile the imagery myself. Unfortunately, though, I’m experiencing some internal war with pouring out some of my conjoured scenes for others to read. I suppose I am shy about laying my soul so bare.
If I pour too much of the essence of me, Shandean, onto a page, will I be judged? I recall on several occasions reading books that were so well, or unusually written, that I spent a decent amount of time reflecting on the soul of the author and what lead them to write a particular story or scene. Would the people reading my book reflect on me like that? All of a sudden, writing a book doesn’t seem so impersonal. It’s real. It’s…. me! The thought makes me squirm in discomfort. I know I’m sort of weird. Lord knows my people comment on it enough. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a trait I’m proud of. I’m just anxious about sharing some of the thoughts I have. Especially thinking about my parents and my granny reading some of those things. #Yikes!
Writing In ONE Tense
I’m not kidding. You have to pick ‘a’ tense. Writing in present or past. Then actively pay attention to writing tens of thousands of words in it. I’m paying close attention because I don’t want an editing mess with the finished product. Also, that self-publishing is an option. I really want this to reflect that it’s a labour of love. It certainly isn’t something you think about when you’re on the reading end of things.
Are They Lying To Me?
I’m a little paranoid and tempted to think my loved ones are lying with the excitement of what I’ve written thus far. It’s not like I don’t trust them, I just know it’s natural for people who care about you to want to protect your feelings. Hurt me with the truth, just don’t comfort me with a lie. I even asked a friend that and was promptly cussed for thinking she wouldn’t tell me if it sucked. Lol! But would they tell me if it sucked really, really badly? Would they even read it? Because, I mean, if the people who care about you won’t even read it, would anyone else? Like I mentioned, all of a sudden I have to think about all the other artfully designed literary pieces out there that mine will have to compete with. When that happens I feel two feet tall and my pride is bruised.
So I’m wading through the waters of my titleless first work of art. She is affectionately called ‘Book’ at this point. Wish me luck!