I made the decision to finally try, and I am off to a sputtering start. I write papers within my Master's program and have published a smattering of newspaper articles. But beyond that, only small sparks of inspiration for my novel have come to me.
The choice I made to stop talking and begin doing included leaving a job and setting up an office. Only two months later I am still trying to find that groove that writers seem to grasp onto when the call to the written word finally grabs them and they are pulled along. I am an unprepared writer, always forgetting the tools of the trade- my moleskin, digital recorder, even pens and pencils. There are random notebooks and journals lounging about my home, waiting to be filled. Some of them have minor notes of what I should be doing, grocery lists, sometimes even work and training notes... but those often far outweigh the novel ideas for characters and plots.
I am aware that it takes time and inspiration and that I should take note, as sometimes inspirations and ideas whisper when you aren't looking for them or really fully paying attention. I begin to expend an effort and eventually the writing takes over. There are many times I have gone back to re-read things I have written in the past and not only do I only vaguely remember the written words, I realize that the person who wrote that piece seems to be way more inspired and creative than I.
Yet, everyday I am aware that I do not want to be just a dreamer. I have had that albatross hung about my neck, hoping for luck, but feeling the proverbial weight pulling at my shoulders. I often wonder why it is easier to let the digs over my hopes and aspirations get to me, rather than grabbing onto the bright hope and encouragement of those who believe in me.
Perhaps it is the fear that I am just a talker, just a dreamer. But then again, I look to Mark Twain, Thomas Edison, Vincent Van Gogh... the dreamers who eventually became leaders in their chosen genre. Renaissance men.
I have grand
My characters that once held conversations in my head; the heroines and villains who acted out scenes in my imagination are now bored with me. They glare at me from behind the piles of school work, covered with the dust of doubt and long hidden behind bookcases filled with distractions. I don't think they are happy with me. I often imagine them loafing among the stacks, rifling through pages of books, drawing on the corners of the reading tables... some of them cutting out the middle of my encyclopedia in my mind and hiding their weapons in the carved out space. Where memories of academia once lived, now sits a sharp knife waiting to be discovered... only I no longer know who the suspect is.
So they sit, waiting for me to find them and ask them interesting questions, study and create them on paper. But I can't do that today... there is a 30 page academic paper on the horizon and there are stacks of research waiting to be rifled through.
A dusty waif in the corner glares at me as I begin to rifle through microfiche and peer reviewed articles. She sighs and goes back to doodling on the desk, dusty and dull as she waits for me to find interest and time for her one day soon.