Here’s the thing:
I kinda have issues when it comes to starting any new story. By that, I mean that I probably just procrastinate way too much. But there’s a process that I seem to follow every time. Sometimes that process takes a while. Sometimes I’ve already started before I’ve finished the last novel/story. It doesn’t make the new story start any sooner. The guilt is stronger though.
Over the years, I’ve learned to deal with it. And dealing with it isn’t the best possible method. It’s more like self-flagellation than anything else. Not exactly healthy. But eventually—somewhere around the three month mark—there’s a confluence of events and I’m forced to overcome Newton’s Law First Law and start moving.
I’ve nearly reached that point now. The story—at least the basics—have formed in my head and I even know the first few paragraphs. An overall plot line is there. Everything is ready to start writing in my mind. And then there are the physical symptoms. My hands itch. The overwhelming urge to tell everyone about the novel that I haven’t written yet. I can’t stop thinking about it. There’s an itch that I can’t quite scratch no matter how much I try.
In other words, withdrawal symptoms.
Yeah. Writing can be like an addiction. What can I say? I’ll freely admit it. And don’t lie to yourselves; you know it can be as well. From what I can tell, and knowing my pattern of behavior, I’ve got about a week at most before I give in and need my next fix. Words will reach the proverbial page. I’ll find the right music. Then poof! The story’s started.
It’s been three months in the making, but I think I’m about ready. That always makes me happy. The foolish dream that I can put on paper the exact ideas running through my head. Which is always the downer. Nothing comes out exactly the way I want it. Close, but never perfect. Chalk it up to human imperfection or poor writing skills or whatever you want. First drafts are never perfect.
But that’s a whole different story.
Anyways, it makes very little difference in the long run. That’s the problem with being born to write. You’ll never find any peace. Your mind will never shut down. New stories will always rear their ugly/beautiful heads. It will never end. Retirement? Nope. Stephen King said that he was retiring from writing, what, ten years ago? That’s turned out well for him. Still putting out a book a year or something like that.
And I am OK with it. For the most part. There are times when I wish that I could just forget about it and focus on my personal life. Find enjoyment in video games or movies once again. Have a conversation with my wife that doesn’t involve an inner dialogue focusing on whatever I am working on. Talk about being absent minded. I guess that’s why I get accused of being ditsy.
K must have married a blonde at heart. But then again, she knew what she was getting into when she said, “I do.” And I’m sure that she’s not the only one. Dealing with the new ideas and whatever method your inner writer uses is a full time gig for your spouse. We should feel blessed to have people in our lives that understand these things and, not only tolerate them, but embrace every crazy part of us.
But I digress. The whole point is that I am having issues. Not big ones, but small tiny ones that will end up pushing me over the edge. And it isn’t that big of a thing. It happens every time. They’ve become like friends. Tiny, annoying friends who won’t shut up in your ear. I’m prepared for them each and every time.
My notebook is ready. My laptop is charged (mostly). My pen is missing. But it won’t be for long, for once I do find it….. It’s on.