I write. Or, I used to write.
Pregnancy seems to have robbed me of my ability to think coherently.
I struggle with sorting through the characters’ voices in my head and getting their words onto paper. Or, more accurately, my computer.
I struggle with making it through the edits for my current contemporary without getting frustrated.
Sometimes the sentences don’t make sense. Sometimes I wonder what I was thinking when I penned a particular line or dialogue.
But, lately, I seem to cringe when I read what I have written.
I wonder how it is that anyone at all thought that what I’ve written was remotely good.
Still, this insane urge to type away on my tablet, to give my characters and their lives a sense of permanence, plagues me.
But I can’t make heads or tails of what they’re trying to tell me.
And it’s annoying.
Yet there’s a part of me that won’t give up on writing. A part of me that clings to the hope that I’ll successfully complete the contemporary I’ve written and begin another. A part of me that knows this is what I need to do.
Because I want to. Because it makes me happy. Because I find immense joy in penning the lives of characters that begin as mere thoughts in my head.
Despite what I feel, despite the hopelessness I sometimes experience, despite the doubt and questions and frustration, I choose to do.
I choose to write better than I have before, to create stories that speak life, to weave together lives that show the greatness of perseverance and love, to manufacture worlds that aren’t perfect but are perfect for my characters. I choose to create situations and characters readers can connect to, to take the impossible and make them possible, to provide not just “feel good” stories but “happily ever stories” that reflect my beliefs and emotions.
I write. Or, rather, I will write.