That feeling. She’s back. The one that’s pushing me to write. The one that’s telling me, “Stop telling yourself you’re content with not writing. Stop telling yourself you’re fine with ‘waiting to hear from your agent.’ Stop telling yourself you’re not a writer right now. Just stop.” Usually, she just comes knocking. This time she started beating at the door with some medieval battle axe thing. I don’t know; it had spikes on it and I’m a one-hundred-two-pound, five-foot tall wuss, so I conceded.
For now, he lives in slightly illegible black ink somewhere in the first third of my Moleskine. His name is Brennan, and he’s narrated by someone about whom I know nothing. I should mention I know nothing about him, either.
Now, part two: What’s worse, the nagging feeling of your inner voice telling you to write and having to use all of your energy to ignore her, or, now having put a few words to paper, not knowing the direction to go? Being in such early stages that you’re in the dark about your intentions, your characters, your settings? Sure, that blank slate is the beauty of fiction, of being the writer, but a writer fools herself if she pretends it’s not daunting.
So, Brennan—what’s next? (Please, please, tell me there’s a “next.”)
M
