I started writing from an early age. I remember not wanting people to read my work. I had this thought process that stated if someone else read my work, I would not finish it. I have so far proved that to be correct. BUT…. Did I self-sabotage by thinking with this mindset? I would leave my work open for about anyone to read when I used to hand write. So, did I truly not want anyone else to read my work? Perhaps I subconsciously wanted others to read my work. Let’s face it, it’s always great to hear positive feedback on the work we do. It feeds our ego. It makes us feel great. We can continue the work, visualising it becoming even greater.
So, I had my family somewhat interested in reading my work. Especially my father. He encouraged me to write my poetry when I was a teenager. It was a way to express myself. I wrote prolifically during my formative years. I wrote on emotions and was buoyed by my high school peers who also wrote this way to express themselves. It was a way of connecting with others around me. I began to feel more comfortable sharing my poetry, reading it aloud and even asking for feedback. I guess back then it was good to do this among my like-minded peers because I knew they understood my words, as I too, understood theirs. But that is where it ended. It did not go further to my stories.
I remember one day; I left the school room to go to the tuck shop and upon my arrival found half my friends – from a different peer group – had picked up my book and read it. I was livid and saw red immediately. I grabbed my book recklessly from my friend’s hands and told her never to read my work again. It upset me for the whole day. I was embarrassed that she had read a work of fiction that was close to my heart. Although I had discussed the book with another close friend, this girl was different. She was from my outer circle of friends. I felt she would not understand. But I somehow found it in my heart to apologise to her while trying to explain the concept of the story. I was surprised when she smiled at me and said “you don’t have to explain it, I understand the story. I think it’s quite good.” She had the most gorgeous dark eyes that enveloped you with love. She didn’t have a reputation for being nice, but her voice was soft when she looked around to make sure no one was listening in and winked at me with a wry smile. “You should keep going. I like it.”
“Nothing will sabotage our happiness and success more thoroughly than the fear that we are not enough.”
Bill Crawford.
So, I did. I continued to draft the story until one day I stopped. I still have it, all written in my best script. But it stopped about halfway through the first third of the story. I have no doubt I will pick it up, edit it, update it with today’s wording and eventually, one day, publish it. Just not today. Which brings me to the question – did I self-sabotage my work then? Was there a gremlin in the works that somehow told me it wasn’t good enough even though it had been validated? I have long thought I should not allow people to read my work before it is completed. Today I have no less than a dozen books on the go at one time. In varying degrees of completeness. Yet not one of them toward the end. I have discussed the concept of these different stories with trusted friends, colleagues, and some strangers to gauge the potential of the story. But every time I do that, it seems this gremlin just lurks away and pounces to prevent me completing the work.
I recline in my chair and push my laptop back, away from me and look around for the coffee I think I need to drink. It takes my mind off what I am doing. If I cannot find it, I will get up from my chair and go make myself one. I add a couple of biscuits, a piece of cake or some chocolates and maybe even stop at the dining table, or living room to sit and partake of my break. It is a comfortable, feel-good break that I relish. If I feel the urge, I may even put the TV on and catch up on some movies I’ve missed. This distraction is wonderfully relaxing, but does nothing to complete my WIP. In fact it kind of acts as a reboot that wipes my recent thoughts because I have not shut down properly.
Now I am in trouble. I cannot get back those recent memories. I put my thinking cap on, switch off the TV, or course I make sure I have arrived at the credits before I do that as I wouldn’t want to miss anything. Then I find the need to write some notes. That is physical writing. This is a good thing as i make the effort to continue the story line. I must re-read the last page or two, and then allow my mind to travel along the path and move forward.
“The inner struggle you feel should not be viewed as conflict but as creative tension to help move you forward.”
Jennifer A. Williams
So, I’ve now come to realise that the ball is in my court. If I want to complete a book, novel, short story, or any project at all, I’ll have to grit my teeth and become staunch in my resolve to complete. I mean, it is up to me what happens to my own projects. There is no one else to blame. Not really. If I want something, I can have it. If I want to create something, I can do it. I can do anything I choose to do. After all, it is my life. My choice. My decision. My destiny. To travel through life with only half completed projects to show for the ending is not my idea of achievement. To achieve, we must commit. It is my right to achieve. It is my right to commit. It is my right to want. I want, so I commit. Therefore, I achieve. It sounds so much better to say I have completed my novel. How else can I call myself an author as opposed to a writer, continuing to write and never completing, therefore never achieving. I must change the head space. Change the wording that says I am writing to I am authoring.
Once I have re-committed to my wip, I am happier. I feel the flow. I become reacquainted with the ebb and flow of the story. I sense and move with this flow and the movement carries me along the river – winding, bobbing, sparkling, roaring, falling, and floating. Until the smooth current carries me softly toward the end, or else meets at the bi-ways or cross-roads which may alter the course of history forever after. Either way, I know I am now closer to the end. The end of that story. The end becomes the beginning of the next story. The next story will be different, yet just another chapter in the story of the Thymeline. For Thymeline is so big that it is a never-ending story in itself.
But that is a new story and not meant for this ending here.
