I don’t feel horribly sick. Just enough to wear me down. But tomorrow is Saturday, and also the DOCTOR WHO premiere. I’ve taken off my glasses, and I’m looking at the keyboard while I type this, but not looking at the keys in the traditional sense. Just staring at the YTHGNB section of the board–right in the middle.
The way to do a writing practice is to write whenever you think about it. A set time and place doesn’t work for me. Besides, sometimes I just need to be able to ramble my novel out, and I’m not going to wait for a specific time and place until I can do that. That’s not very productive. I don’t think I’m stuck with the novel. I’m just at that place where it’s starting to feel real. It isn’t very real, not yet, but it feels like i’m making something bigger than I ever have before, which is true. And that freaks me the fuck out.
I’ve always thought that my procrastination was more fear of success than fear of failure. Because I just don’t care what other people think, so I don’t care if they hate my book. But what if I finally get everything I’ve been wishing for since elementary school?
Speaking of elementary school, working in the daycare has got me thinking about the kinds of books I loved as a kid. I loved Robert Munsch and Roald Dahl and Shel Silverstein and Ogden Nash and Rudyard Kipling. I think I would really love to write something like that in the future. I would really love to write a collection of kids poems.
But first I have to write this novel. It really is the key to getting into the industry. Once you have an agent who likes your style and knows the market, they can help you sell your other, weirder side projects. My whole life is a side project.