It’s easier to write about writing than it is to just sit down and write. I can write pages and pages about writer’s block and how I’m unsure about a certain character’s motivation, or how the setting doesn’t feel like a real place. I’m working on a first draft of a bat crap crazy story and right now, I’m unsure about everything. It comes and goes. Some days I can sit down and write page after page. Some days I re-write. Some days I delete. Some days I stare at my computer screen demanding an answer from no one in particular about why I threw in that storyline about a ghost. And really, why is she there? She’s useless.
It’s maddening because just when I want to delete the entire thing and pretend this insult to literature never existed, I see it done. It’s finished and published and I’m a writer. So I don’t delete it and tell myself to write more, knowing I won’t. Because “A professional writer is an amateur who didn’t quit”. Maybe Richard Bach is right, and persistence alone will get me where I want to be. Maybe talent doesn’t really exist as we understand it and people only have different interests and views and what they are interested in and spend their time perfecting is what they’re good at. Or maybe every single one of the books I write will bomb, only selling a copy apiece to my mom. But if I never publish a book at all, no matter how good or bad the unfinished drafts are, the outcome will be exactly the same. So I don’t know. Who’s to say what’s a waste of time and what’s not. Chances are no one will ever interview me about my upcoming book tour, but is a little optimism really that bad?