Writing and I have a turbulent relationship. When things are going well, it’s the best love affair I’ve ever had. I wake up breathless and excited every day, and cannot wait to see my work again. I drink copious amounts of coffee as I delve into it, and the feeling of enthusiasm never fades. It’s like a damn drug, and I stay up all hours, contemplating our next meeting. It’s blissful. Manic, but blissful.
It isn’t always so. When things are bad, I tend to fall into a black hole of depression, and view my work as though it were a treacherous ex boyfriend. Why did it stop talking to me? Why did our love affair end, and on what terms? I can’t figure out what went wrong. Maybe we had a different endgame in mind? I wanted to finish in a well-rounded and credible place, but my muse had different ideas. It refuses to offer any more inspiration or guidance. It’s cruel, and I start to question my own abilities at restoring the relationship, or ever creating anything again. Maybe I don’t have what it takes?
I’m sure I’m not the only person to have suffered this, and it’s a bitter experience. Nobody likes unfinished business, and an unfinished book is just that. It started well. I spent a year researching my subject matter, and created a plot plan which seemed flawless. ‘Seemed’ being the important word here. The plot wasn’t flawless, and I often found myself at points where I wondered where to go next. My characters took strange turns which were both fascinating and frustrating. I followed these turns in the name of narrative flow, and I was genuinely excited at the time, but then I found myself ill-prepared when new turns reared their heads. To put it bluntly, my characters approached complex situations, and then they stopped talking to me. I didn’t know where to go next. I went from being unable to function without being inspired to write, to…nothing.
The love affair seemed to be over, and I made the mistake of stepping away from my work. I turned off the laptop, and returned the next morning, expecting to find my muse. I didn’t. I sat and stared at the same amount of words, over and over again. My muse didn’t return to me immediately, and so I gave up. I’m ashamed to admit it now, but I walked away and stopped. I’d invested years into this, but it only took two days for me to give up. Needless to say, I’m ashamed to admit it, but it’s the truth.
The New Year has come back around, and I’m thinking about the unfinished book again. I’m thinking about my inability to focus on something long term, and how I can fix it. During university, I didn’t have a choice but to remain focused on dissertations and assignments. Fixed university deadlines terrified me into focus, and I powered through the moments of self-doubt, and discovered inspiration again on the way. My New Years Eve resolution is therefore to make a plan, set myself deadlines and stick to them. I’m going to be turning off the internet when writing, and staying the hell away from social media. Facebook is an absolute curse to my writing. My self-control is weak, but things need to change!
And they will. Once I’ve checked Facebook one more time…only kidding!
Wish me luck!