I have a confession to make, although it’s mostly to myself. Forget however many copies my book is selling; I'm definitely going nowhere as a writer. For the past many months the main creative writing I have done is trying to come up with original answers to the questions put to me in the countless interviews I've given. Don't get me wrong; I've certainly enjoyed the marketing I've been doing for my novel, The Guilty. Doing interviews, seeking reviews, posting comments and occasional blogs, discovering how many sites out there are devoted to the independent author. I feel like I've recently joined an on-line community I never knew existed, and I spend much of my time inter-acting with other authors as well as readers. But all this time and effort has been in the place of actually writing. Blogs aren't real writing (unless you're a full-time or professional blogger.) Neither are posting reviews of the books of others. For me, real writing means getting back to the fictional characters I've created and who now wait in limbo, wondering when their destinies will be fulfilled. Real writing means regaining the discipline to tell the stories I enjoy telling.
And I do have stories to tell. Two of them to be exact. Two books that I managed to become blocked on after about 200 pages each. That’s already a lot of work to put into a single story, let alone two of them. Yet they sit there, on my computer but, sadly, not on my mind. And I tell myself I have no time to write because I have to organize a blog tour, or prepare for a book fair. But maybe I’m just too scared to put in the hard work and hours that are necessary to get over my writer’s block, to getting the story-telling untracked.
I used to like to think I was a writer, whatever level of success I attained. Now I’m just a busy publicist, who used to write. On more than one occasion, I promised myself that once this or that was done, once I got over the next hump, I would pick up one of my half-written books and get back to being a real writer again. I just don’t know if I can take myself at my word.
And I do have stories to tell. Two of them to be exact. Two books that I managed to become blocked on after about 200 pages each. That’s already a lot of work to put into a single story, let alone two of them. Yet they sit there, on my computer but, sadly, not on my mind. And I tell myself I have no time to write because I have to organize a blog tour, or prepare for a book fair. But maybe I’m just too scared to put in the hard work and hours that are necessary to get over my writer’s block, to getting the story-telling untracked.
I used to like to think I was a writer, whatever level of success I attained. Now I’m just a busy publicist, who used to write. On more than one occasion, I promised myself that once this or that was done, once I got over the next hump, I would pick up one of my half-written books and get back to being a real writer again. I just don’t know if I can take myself at my word.