Where is this story going? Sure, I’ve been working on it for three years now, and I’ve rewritten it thirteen times, but I just don’t know where to go with this. I could have a happy ending where everyone holds hands and sings around the fire? Or they could burn in the fire. Oh, I like that, such drama. Much intrigue. Many tears. My readers are going to hate me for this one. Oh, well.
I wonder if I’ll ever get this book published. I’ve been querying for six months. All I’ve gotten are rejections. One publisher says, “We loved your character development, but your ending was a little flat.” Another says, “Your ending was exceptional, but your character development was lacking.” So, what am I supposed to do? Do I fix my characters? Or my climax? I. Have. No. Idea. All I know is, my hands hurt from typing so much and my head hurts from typing so much, and I’m beginning to wonder why I’m doing this at all.
I hate this book.
I definitely should be doing something else-- anything else. I don’t have time to be a writer. I’m going to school full time and working two jobs, and yet somehow I am still finding time to tell stories and put words on the page. I hope they’re good words. Are they good words? How does one write a book?
I need my notebook...When I think of something new to write, I have to jot it down. Otherwise, I’m going to forget it. And then I’ll always remember that I forgot it. Don’t think I’m exaggerating, it’s happened many times before. Oh, my god, I just got a great idea for another story! This may be the best one yet, and I know I say this every time, but I mean it! See what I mean about needing the notebook?
Oops, I just wrote my sister into my story, but I only wrote a version of her with her bad qualities. And, oops, seven pages later, she dies a violent death. Hopefully she doesn’t notice. That will cause a war in our household, because apparently writing people into your book just to kill them is frowned upon. Oh well, I’m not even sorry.
Writers fall in love more than everyone else. We fall in love with characters and and realities, but we also fall in love with the world in which we live, and we entwine it with our fantasy worlds without a second thought.
I just really love my book.
Am I crazy for doing this-- being a writer? People stare at me in pity when I say I’m a writer because somehow they equate “writer” with “madwoman.” Maybe they’re right. Maybe writers are mad, like Alice. In Wonderland. Or maybe we’re just a bunch of unruly children, doing what we want. When we want to. Without adults. Or rules. Like Peter. In Neverland.
Aww, look at my lovebird characters smooching. I LOVE THEM. Wait. What if my parents read this someday? Let me just change this… okay, they patted each other on the shoulders. Much better!
Oh, my, god, my hands hurt. I should stop now. Actually, I should stop and go to bed because it’s midnight, and I need to get up early because I spent all of my time writing instead of doing my homework. I’m going to hate myself for this tomorrow.
But, oh, I love writing so much.