I’m writing with abandon, something I haven’t been used to in the past year and a half. Funny how you lose that ability if you don’t use it.
When I finished the last book in my contract, I had this rush of freedom and excitement. I sat down at the computer and the words flew from my fingers.
Then, out of nowhere came the moment all writers face. Fun became work. Words became scary objects of self-annihalation. I got scared. I was used to some rules I don’t have to pay attention to. I’m afraid I don’t have the right conflict. I’ve discovered I can’t write in a linear fashion any more, but no agent or editor wants pieces of a quilt with the promise that I’ll fit them together with the other pieces I don’t have yet.
That would be a crisis of confidence. I enjoy drama, but not that kind. I prefer a fictional crisis that requires some fancy writing.
And really, that’s all I have to do. Some fancy writing that looks simple and touches a reader’s heart. I’ve opened my own heart to those words. I want to feel I’m living in my story.
And one day this story may live for readers, too.
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