Losing My Focus
I hate the way my brain works sometimes.
Here I am, entering the third month of the year, and I'm already hip-deep in writing projects.
The gulf between what I think I can achieve and what I'm actually capable of is always, without fail, much, much wider than I think.
The Shiny Things
I started the year with a clear goal of finishing a zeroth draft of the story I was already working on.
My focus, this year, was supposed to be about completing something. Anything.
I am now reworking some old pieces of poetry, having already abandoned the original story I was working on and two others besides.
Stupid brain!
My writing has, for years, been at the mercy of my short attention span. Or, more accurately, the ease with which I commit to other things.
I have boxes full of half-written stories in the garage.
Most of them are complete tripe and deserve to never see the light of day again. I just can't bring myself to burn them.
But there are some stories, in those boxes, that might have had promise if the next shiny thing hadn't caught my eye.
And the next. And the next.
And now I'm back walking these old, comfortably-worn trails.
In the Bliss
I shouldn't complain too much.
One of my other aspirations for the year was to simply find the love in creating once more.
And I have.
I am, each day, looking forward to this time of the evening, when I sit at the keyboard, switch the headphones on and lose myself.
As I've mentioned before, some days are better than others.
But when I hit that streak, when I'm immersed in the zone, it is bliss.
I am exciting about writing again.
So much so, unfortunately, that I can't bring myself to focus on a single project.
I want to write all the stories that are welling up in my head.
Fear of Hate
I am torn.
Do I force myself to focus on finishing a single project, possibly to the detriment of my enjoyment?
Or do I let my art take me where it will, no matter what the cost in abandoned prose?
I know the craft of writing is meant to be a discipline.
Time in the chair and words on the page are worth so much more than riding gusts of inspiration.
But I think I've long held a fear that I might grow to hate the act of writing if I force myself to do it.
That by turning the act of writing into a structured labour, it will lose its wonder, its allure, its...magic.
And I've just started to love it all again!
Maybe for now, I write whatever the hell I feel like. Yes, that idea sits comfortably.
I'll try to keep the quantity of works to a minimum.
But at some point--in the next few months!--I'm going to have to turn scribblings into something I can sell.
Because, that is the ultimate goal: to see my art published and read and adored.
All images from pixabay.org
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