On Unsticking

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I've been hitting grit after spinning for so long.

Headlong into the noveling project (7,000 words in, roughly), I'm grappling with The Wall. This is supposedly common for week two. I fear I have an exceptionally dull protagonist and a flighty, derivative storyline. I have wonderful people supporting me and cheering me on, and I fear that they'll want to read what I'm writing and I'll have to tell them, "no, not ever", because thinking it'll never see the light of day is the only way I can actually do this in the first place. 50,000 words is a lot of work to never be read by anyone but me, which makes me feel like it's not amounting to much, but I can't know how this is going to turn out, and I need to put my pride aside and not expect any sort of outcome. I'm reminding myself that this 50,000 is an investment in me and an education in shucking off my self-editor and she's been shushed quite successfully for 7,000 words, so what's 43,000 more? (Gulp.)

I've got a new distraction, which doesn't help my word count, but makes the writing easier. There are late night smiles and cheesy jokes and car rides with great music and hands on one another's knees, and suddenly I find myself wanting to share all of my favourite songs and wear my prettiest clothes and brush the hair off his forehead. I feel still and quiet and content and present. This feels comfortable, which is good, as I'm out of my well-defined depth.

Sometimes I catch myself and think, "but this isn't what you wanted!", but I think I only knew what I didn't want – I didn't want to settle. But it's not settling, it's not accepting less or giving up, to give more breathing room to something imperfect but promising. I've been so good at being practical that I'd forgotten how to take a leap on something that didn't have an expiry date. And I'm still not sure that I'm any good at it, but I can only get better if I'm not afraid to fail.

So far, November's taught me that to get wheels out of the mud, I can't be afraid of the dirt.