I'm writing a story. It's a real story, and by real story I mean I am not talking about poop or farting, and I am trying to adhere to the rules of grammar and punctuation. It is the longest thing I've ever written.
I think about it constantly. I think about what my characters are doing when they're not within the confines of the story. I think about changing words or adding things, and I am forever scrambling for one of my little notebooks or the back of an envelope before the words evaporate as they travel from my brain through my fingers and out the pen. Or, sometimes, crayon.
Often, what was absolute poetry in my head becomes complete shit after it's written down. One sentence actually made me laugh out loud when I read it.
It is not a funny story.
After I handed the first draft to the Husband to read, I was filled with such anxiety that I immediately wanted to snatch it back and shred it. It's shit! I have to start over. And when he handed it back and I started to edit, I wanted to cry with every mark I made.
This is what I love to do? Really?
The more I edit, the better I like it, the less it resembles something I wrote in my eighth grade journal. But I know that I will place it in an envelope and send it off and spend the next two months trying not to throw up every time I think about it.
I think about my friend MOV over at Mothers of Brothers Blog, and her new book, and all the work she's put into it. I think about J Rose at Cheeseblarg and the amazing art she creates, and Reese at Reese Rants and Raves, who's throwing up about her own short story. I think about all the people I know who put take risks in order to do what they love. They inspire me.
If they can do it, so can I. The least I can do is try.
2 hours ago