I’ve been trying to write. I don’t mean blog, I mean write. Why is there such a significant difference? Blogging is easy.
Writing is paralyzing.
I’ve written and re-written a book outline no less than 10 times in the last two weeks and yesterday, with a rare day to myself, I took my husband’s advice and “just started writing already.”
I wrote 3367 words (6 and a half single spaced pages) and let me just say:
When I was finished, reading it over, all I could think was “Who would EVER want to read THIS?”
not good. I was back to paralyzed.
So today, while avoiding writing altogether, I found myself in Goodwill, with my head tipped to my right shoulder, perusing book titles.
(ya know how your mother used to say if you made a certain face it was gonna stick that way? Well I’m waiting for my head to stick that way, as much as I book shop.)
Then a book title jumped out at me: “If You Can Talk You Can Write”
People, I can talk.
I glanced at the back and the first bulleted description read:
“Conquer the Killer Ps – Perfectionism, Paralysis and Procrastination”
I put the book in my basket immediately.
I couldn’t wait to get home. I’m anxious for the cure, the quick fix this book is sure to provide. (What? My expectations are too high? Unrealistic?) The boys are at a track meet somewhere about an hour and a half away, PinkGirl is singing in the shower at the top of her lungs and I cop a squat (I have such a way with words, it’s hard to believe I’m having trouble writing) on the back porch with my new book and a cup of coffee. Will I identify with this author? Can he help me? Let’s see:
“For some reason, everyone thinks, ‘I should know how to write.’ No one thinks, ‘I should know how to play the piano.’ But when it comes to writing, ‘I should know how to do it.’
What if I told you a story about a man who buys a piano, sits down to play for the very first time and is shocked when he doesn’t sound like Arthur Rubinstein?
‘I don’t understand,’ he complains, ‘I’ve listened to lots of music, I should know how to play the piano.’
Ridiculous you say? Yet there you are: Banging away at the typewriter, you’re mortified when your work isn’t as good as Ernest Hemingway’s. Hell, it isn’t even as good as Ernest Goes to Camp.”
that was unexpected. I actually laughed out loud.
Not as good as Ernest Goes to Camp. yes, I do believe I can identify with this author.
I’m also having lunch with my friend – a professional writer – tomorrow so I can beg her to cure my paralysis for some insight and advice.