I despair daily about not being published. I struggle everyday with the loneliness of writing and sitting in front of this heartless machine that feels no more than a rock. At least that’s from an ocean or a mountain and was once part of something bigger. Little by little it was separated from its past and its future is unknown.
I’m re-reading one of my favourite writing books: writing out the storm by Jessica Page Morrell. I have nearly all her books and they are often inspiration to me. I jump in and read a few pages and her caring voice encourages me to try. To trust myself, believe that I can do it, to not listen to the rude people or nay sayers. I can be my own cheering squad, I just have to believe.
I’ve started a journey into a new novel. I’ve scribbled notes on scrap paper with my initial thoughts and now need to decide what to do with them. Do I try to make an outline, or do I go with rambling until I can go no more?
I normally go with the latter until I’m drained, then I approach my outline.
I wish Jessica were here with me, but since she lives in North America and I live in Australia, all I have are her words and spirit from her books and website; the rest is up to me.
I’ve written about the loneliness of writing before, but sometimes feel worse than others. Maybe because of winter descending, fogging the windows and my mind, making my thoughts hazing and hard to get down on paper.