That’s me. Zero confidence in my writing. Not writer’s block. Creating content isn’t the problem. Reread my recent work on Chapter 20 and it was garbage.
It was a rushed four-paragraph, section of a first draft. In other words, it should have been garbage.
Wanted to finished in October, work on the second draft through the end of the year. Didn’t quite work out as planned.
…and that’s alright!
So uncomfortable with the idea of finishing (for whatever reason… yeah, I know the real reason… will get to it in a minute) that I decided to write a blog post right as I was opening the outline file. Every distraction imaginable will fly at me from every possible direction. I somehow end up with the TV on in the background, music playing on YouTube or iTunes, and Words with Friends or Amazing Breakers or text messaging with the phone.
Doing my best to sprint in the opposite direction away from the finish line.
And what did “The War of Art” teach me? Run screaming toward that thing I passionately resist no matter how nervous it makes me. My soul, my life will find the artistic satisfaction it seeks on the other side…
“Woo-sah” (shout out to Martin Lawrence in “Bad Boys II”!)
Now for an obvious fact: Some force deep within my psyche would prefer that I never finish this story, make it the best that I can, and subsequently shop it for literary representation and ultimately publication. Why I still fight success, I’ll never know. I’ve earned this, busted my ass to make this work and it’s a really good story. Well beyond the point of shock where friends are happy I can form a sentence in the first place, to the point where they’re excited because they see its potential.
But time keeps ticking, and I don’t have forever. Tomorrow isn’t promised. Gotta figure this out… No, no time for paralysis by analysis when there’s a simpler solution:
Just do it. Because this fear isn’t going to beat me. Defeat isn’t an option, and it isn’t because I’m motivated to avoid a “What if?”.
I’m motivated to see what happens when I have the sort of faith and belief in myself that others have that I’m willing to completely devote myself to creating the strongest, most visceral, honest artistic expression I can come up with at this point in my life.
Like me and Big Ray tell each other during our chest workouts, “No punks allowed… nothing but a small thing to a giant.”
Post over, back to work.
89,850 words, 20 chapters, 541 pages.
PS I don’t know if any of you have picked up on this, but I’ve made two observations of the effort it takes to write a book:
1) It’s akin to running a marathon… but with typing. So it’s akin to typing a marathon!
2) It’s the most torturous mindfuck man has ever devised.