I love to write. I’ve been doing it since I learned to read. I think the first book I wrote was a Mr. and Miss book when I was about five. I made up a story and even did the illustrations.
When life gets me sad, glad, mad, happy, joyful, negative, irate and so on and so forth, I write. I have the journals to prove it.
Why is this book so dang hard?
I am about halfway through a book I originally envisioned as a trilogy. Right now, I can’t even imagine finishing the book. In fact, I want to delete the entire file off my computer and never think of it again.
It’s more than just middle of the book blahs, or at least I think it is. It feels like this is the worst book idea ever written. Somehow, I’ve got two heroes. No, it is not a M/F/M book, so this is kind of an issue. I decided two chapters ago to sacrifice one hero, so I killed him a nice way consistent with his character. He saves the day, almost.
Now, I want him back instead of the asshat I have currently stuck myself with. I was just outlining a scene for the heroine, and I want to stab the man in the jugular. He’s just a jerk. He needs some redeeming qualities fast, or I am going to create some kind of resurrection machine for the other guy and call it a fantasy book.
I ended my last writing session with a blurb of what I thought I wanted to happen because I just couldn’t make myself write it. I didn’t even want to open the file.
If I hate writing it, doesn’t this mean everyone is going to hate reading the book? Because I pretty much feel like I wouldn’t want to read it either.
I’m behind on my word count. Drives me up a wall. Not even close to where I want to be. I HATE THIS BOOK!
How do I fix this? What am I supposed to do with the drivel I have spent 50,000 words putting on the page? All this time sunk into a black hole of literature. *slumps over her computer*
Maybe I will make the hero into someone else? Maybe I can give him a personality transfer from someone else? Maybe I should go back and kill him off instead?
I know I should have my butt in my chair and hands on my keyboard, but I don’t want to. I realize this sounds like a two-year-old having a meltdown in the middle of the kitchen over chicken nuggets versus green beans, but I just don’t feel it.
I’d eat a vat of chocolate, but it’s almost dinner time, and there are chicken enchiladas on the menu. I just can’t spoil those. Too delicious.
Sigh. I am going to just have to write complete shite for an hour tonight and see if I get anywhere.
Sometimes being a writer sucks.