I was just sitting there, having a little too much fun in my own head…
Maybe I would work on my novel. After what happened this weekend, the thrill heightened, like it grew wings and decided it might actually fly.
I met a criminologist and author, Susan Magestro, at a book festival. My granddaughter actually spotted her first. Finding her felt timely in a way I didn’t expect. She works in criminology and writes psychological thrillers, the same world my protagonists live in; I caught myself thinking this might actually help me understand them better. I am so excited to read her novel. She was a charming soul, especially when she said, “When you finish your novel, I want to buy your very first book.” What an honor.
But not today. I do not have the time. I really should edit Part 6 of Lilly’s story. I read it today and thought, why was I in such a rush to post it? I even hesitated last night. Reading it again, I can tell something is off, I just cannot quite name it. Nope, I will keep moving forward and keep that in mind with Part 7.
I know what I can do.
Today is a great day to respond to a prompt. They always tickle my desire to be creative. I have not done one in a while. I hope it is a good one.
But I cannot do another silly conversational piece. No animals or different beliefs talking amongst themselves. I must not allow my food to chit-chat, not even my taste buds can chime in. Not that I am leaving that behind. I will return to it, but I need to work those writing muscles with variety. After all, how can I grow if I limit the kind of writing I do?
Even as I say this, wait, why can’t I play with unique characters? I know the answer. I can, but I also want to see what else I might enjoy.
So, as I pondered different ways to be creative, I felt a surge of joy building, a tangible, palpable excitement about writing.
Ain’t it something, reader… how wonderful it is to do that which ticks our tocks, the things that have our inner dwellings dancing because they appreciate when we return to the thrill of writing?
This is my happy place.
This place is where I notice myself from within. It is like a painter who feels they were meant to paint and finally picks up the brush. I value writing and the writer in me, so when my actions line up with that, there is a kind of cognitive congruence.
It feels a little like hiking to a beautiful stream. The slope can be steep, the effort real, but the reward is in the view. I get to see something from within that both soothes me and excites me.
Many of you are writers too. You get it but humor me. I want to see if I can find a way to express what all that movement inside feels like.
I can feel an itch for movement with words. The music is turned up inside and now I yearn to waltz with my imagination.
The restless spirit that sometimes haunts me is put away and replaced with anticipation.
Yesterday, last night specifically, I opened my laptop not to answer a prompt, not to write a short story or a reflective moment, but to work on my novel in progress.
It is harder work. It requires a skill set I am still developing as I go. It is exciting and also so stinking hard.
I closed the lid on my writing contraption and said, “Who am I kidding? I can’t do this. It’s overwhelming. It’s too much.”
Naturally, I justified my melodrama.
“If I keep writing this, or even trying to, I will lose all the joy I reap from less challenging pieces. I must quit and accept my limitations.”
Very noble. Extremely dramatic.
Then another voice, slightly irritating and still mine, chimed in.
“Woman, remember your bucket list? The one you shared? I thought finishing this was number one.”
Rude.
Eventually, all my inner ramblings gathered into one reluctant conclusion.
“Fine. Dang it. I will get back on the writing horse tomorrow. Even if I wrestle with one sentence all day, I will not give up on myself. I can do hard things.”
The melodrama did not entirely cease. After all, I am me.
But tomorrow is today.
So, this is my public pep talk.
It may be challenging. It may be daunting. But I am going in. I will flourish, if only in the effort.
Now quit procrastinating. I see what you are doing.
Oh Laptop, Scribbles, as I affectionately call you, I am back.
I began my first book believing I was writing a cozy mystery, something with warm edges and clever turns, a comforting puzzle wrapped in charm.
But somewhere around ten thousand words in, I realized I had been trying to bake something that simply wasn’t a scone. The ingredients were darker, the tension more layered, the story far more complex than I had first imagined.
It turns out, my book leans more toward a psychological suspense mystery, intricate and unfolding in ways I didn’t initially recognize.
You would think discovering the true nature of your own story wouldn’t require thousands of words. I certainly thought so. At first, that realization brought discouragement. I wondered why I hadn’t “known” sooner.
But while reading The Silent Patient by Alex Michaelides this morning, something shifted. I felt it, that steady, electric clarity that says, there it is it; this is what I’m writing, the flavor and temperature.
And then, suddenly, that frustration gave way to a sharp spark of recognition, the kind that makes you sit up straighter and forget your coffee has gone cold.
Watching the characters begin to arc in unexpected directions is euphoria-inducing in a way I did not anticipate.
Holding a finished manuscript is still the goal. Selling a first copy would be a thrill beyond anything I’ve known
But I am beginning to understand that the deeper reward is not just in finishing. It is in finding the right recipe and delighting in the process of watching it come together.
