There are days that I wonder why I do this – sit on my bed or at my desk or at the table at lunch and scribble words on lined paper or on the backs of old homework, only to go home and tempt carpal tunnel syndrome by typing it all up. Even this entry was written on the back of an old history outline and had to be typed up.
Why do I write? I never thought about it until this past year, even though I have been writing since I was six.
I really don’t know the answer. I don’t know what keeps me chugging through Writer’s Block and deadlines. I don’t know that it is that keeps me writing at all. All I do know is that I can’t imagine life without writing.
I don’t know what I’m going to do when my current writing project is finally done. I have been working on it for something like three years now and I’ll probably be at it for most of this year, what with rewriting and editing being worked in around school. I think I’ll feel a little lonely when it is all over and done with. After all, my characters and I have been together for several years now. When their story is finally done, I’ll be all alone until I throw myself into another full-time writing gig. I have two other works currently: my short fic anthology, ‘Mutts’, and a retelling of ‘Beauty and the Beast.’ But they are only side projects. I suppose B&B could become full-time, but Mutts, even though I have been working on it for about a year, doesn’t have the long-haul characters of a novel to keep me company.
*sigh* There are times I wish that stories would never end. Then, on the flipside, there are days I can’t wait to finish this story and plunge up to my elbows into the muck of a new novel. There’s always another story to be conceived and told, I suppose, though I will miss this one when it is over.
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