I read a great book this weekend called On Writing by Stephan King. I highly recommend it to anyone wanting to write whether it be blog, story stories or novels. It was the kick in the ass I desperately needed lately. I want to finish my book, I NEED to finish my book, if just for myself. Not only that, but I have so many other ideas for story stories, manuscripts, novels… the list goes on.
The writers block I have been stuck in has been killing me. I was forcing myself to write but what was coming out was complete trash. Trust me when I say that. It wasn’t even close to what I know I can write. I lost that little fire inside, I was doubting everything I wanted to put down, I was trying to add more to the story then what was needed simply because I didn’t think what I was writing was good enough. I thought everyone that read it would think of only how juvenile it was. I was afraid it was reflecting poorly on me and I wouldn’t be taken seriously.
Well, screw all of that. I don’t write because I want validation from anyone. I write because I have to. I have all these thoughts and vivid pictures in my head and if I don’t get them out I think I will go insane. I don’t just have ideas, I have whole plot lines complete with twists mapped out. I have characters with their own personalities, their own histories, their own destinies inside me. And not just for the book I’ve been writing but for dozens of others because, I am a writer.
I let myself forget that for a while. I wasn’t owning up to the fact that I write because it find an immense sense of joy from it. Its not just my hobby, it defines me. I find inspiration everywhere. I am constantly writing stories everyday, even if I am not writing them down. When I play “What if?” with Mike, I am making up stories. When I’m walking down the street and I only catch half of a sentence someone is saying as they pass and I finish their thought with something I’ve made up in my head I am making up stories.
And so what if they are juvenile? They are fun. And I don’t care if every single person that reads anything I choose to write down, or any story I decide to say out loud thinks they are immature. I don’t spin stories to make anyone else happy but myself.
I am indescribably overjoyed that I got my passion back. I have had words pouring out of me all day long and I feel like I’m an a high right now. It is 10 pm and I honestly don’t know how I am going to be able to calm down enough to go to sleep. I would love nothing more than to stay up till the early hours releasing all of this creative energy.
Its like there was a dam built, and it had a few holes in it, so some stuff trickled through but now its been blown wide open. It’s just up to me to take all this new found inner power and harness it. And God, for the first time in a really long time I can not wait to.
In the book King says that to really write, you have to do 2000 words a day. In the beginning you can do 1000 6 days a week but by the 2nd month you have to be at 2000 everyday without fail. I think I can do this.
No, I KNOW I can do this. I will do this. I have stories to tell and share with the world and I want to let them out.
I am a writer. And even if I am not a good one, a competent one or *God I wish* a GREAT one. I am one. And I am not letting anyone tell me differently.