A writer writes.
That manta has been drilled into my head since the moment I decided to embrace my desire to put pen to page. There is a societal expectation that if you have the audacity to call yourself a writer, you must produce proof of such a claim. I’ve always taken this to heart.
I think, therefore I am. - Rene Descartes
I write, therefore I am a writer.
It’s a mindset that is very hard for me to reconcile at the moment. If you read my posts, you will remember that at the beginning of the year I made the decision to shelve my work in progress. Recently, I’ve felt the magnetic pull of characters that will not be ignored. In an effort to stave off the voices, and because I believe in the essence of this story, I decided to begin again.
Back to the drawing board.
To start over.
As new ideas begin to take root, grow, and blossom, I am overwhelmed with the desire to write. Witty dialogue mingles with vibrant action in scenes that swirl around my brain, begging for an outlet. It is the order of things. In the past, I’ve been very much a fly by the seat of your pants writer. As the voices grew louder, the scenes more vivid, the siren’s call of the keyboard more desperate, I inevitably gave into the temptation to write, mindless of the consequences.
Herein lies the reason my first stab at Retribution went down in glorious, Technicolor flames. I gave into the voices and lost sight of the big picture. I planned poorly – or rather – I didn’t plan at all.
This time it will be different. It must be. I took an oath to myself that I would resist the itch to write until I had a thorough, well-planned outline. It was a promise that fell freely from my lips. It sounded so easy, such an attainable goal.
I was wrong, as I am so often lately. It is very hard to resist the itch to write, especially when you have set such boundaries. It is as if my rebellious self is testing the limits of my resolve by spitting in the eye of my iron will.
But, my iron will is a determined beast. Resist I will.
For now, anyway.