It’s been a long few years.
Cancer in my father followed by a slow, agonizing death.
A move from Virginia back home to Nebraska.
Children growing up, moving out.
The birth of a grandchild.
Sadness. Joy. Overwhelm.
For a while there, I lost my mojo for writing.
I’m back now.
At least, I think I am.
I’ve completed two manuscripts, but they still sit there in my hard drive, partially edited. They’re like bits of not-quite-digested meat, still mulled over, still thought about.
I have no idea why I don’t publish them. I have no idea why they sit there, remembered and forgotten.
I’m 17,000 words into a new novel. It’s weight pushes out from all sides. I see it–alive and breathing and finished. And I wonder if it will be drowned in a burlap sack in the river like the others, or if I will let it live somewhere.
So with my random thoughts comes a question: What do I want from my writing?
Do I want to change the world? Do I want to be viewed as profound? Poignant? Do I want to entertain? Or, like most writers, am I just filled with ideas that torture me until I let them out.
I don’t have an answer.
I came across this today as I was sifting through the bookmarks on my computer.
It’s pretty damn good advice.
I have nothing poignant, intelligent, or advisory to offer to a reader on this day. I can only illustrate my own struggles. Perhaps that will be of help to someone. Perhaps not.
So I will let Mr. Chuck Wendig, author of the above linked blog post, say it for me.
You don’t know who the hell I am, by the way.
Just another weird writer trying to Finish My Shit.