Twitter. It's kind of like high school. But back then I was popular. And young. Now I sit in the slush pile of writing wannabes scanning tweets for writing tips and probable locales likely to feature the kind of thing I want to write. Or should I say the kind of thing I do write. What I do write are ideas. I'm in love with them. I'm addicted to the burst of adrenaline that rivals any energy drink on the market when I get a new idea. I smile at everyone, think the world is amazing and humans are wonderful. It is a high that nothing else comes close to. The thing is, just as quickly as it comes, fickle lover that it is, it evaporates. Fireworks and then the glittery falling apart that leaves black sky and wisps of smoke in its wake.
I've come to this conclusion. It's very hard to be a writer when you can't fan those flames. And therein lies the rub. I can't seem to get past it. That's not entirely true. If I am extremely disciplined I can do it. I once wrote a childrens' novel just to see if I could. I entered Nanowrimo and finished. But have I edited either one? Nope.
So the answer is discipline. Cool. But when the sink is overflowing and my full time job has me drained where is that spark then? It's dancing with someone else. Someone younger and more energetic. Someone with a flat stomach. So cliche. I mentioned in a previous post that I turn my ideas into freeverse or risk losing them completely and that works to preserve them. It's the literary equivalent of Botox. But when I run across these beautiful beginnings while adding yet another best selling idea to my ever expanding notebook and see them looking so good it literally pains me. I gaze at them longingly willing any one of them to step forward and take my hand and lead it across the page in a waltz of words. Too much?
To say I'm frustrated is an understatement. It's times like this that I usually sit myself at my computer and berate myself for being such a shitty writer; a true impostor and then a curious thing happens. While I'm telling myself I will never amount to anything and that I will die on a mattress stuffed with hardcopies of magnificent undiscovered manuscripts I will get...an idea. And so it goes.