I was skimming through my blog posts yesterday and inwardly cringed at my tendency to whine about my latest WIP, EFFIN’ ALBERT. How many times have I mentioned how tough it’s been to write it, how it’s fought me at every turn, how every chapter is like pulling teeth ? It’s actually a little sickening at times and I apologize to anyone who’s slogged through those self-indulgent posts. I know I’m not the only one who’s suffered self-doubt, who’s found herself struggling to overcome writer’s block, who’s slipped into self-pity and despair. What, misery makes me special?
Nope, Lucy would say to me. Just tedious.
Truth is, I’m a writer. I write. Sometimes the words come easy and sometimes they don’t. So quit your bitching, kk, that’s what Lucy would say. Put on your big girl panties and get to work, get this thing FINISHED. Oddly enough, as I’ve slowly recouped from a protracted, germ-ridden hell, I’ve found myself oddly inspired to write. It’s kind of thrilling, actually. If my WIP were a play, I’d be settling into Act III, heading for that quintessential moment when the last words are spoken and the curtain comes tumbling down.
Last night I started reading the thing, beginning around Page 100, checking for flow, making sure my writing was consistent throughout. When I was done I thought to myself, You know what? This is good. Damn. I think I really might have something here.
This morning I tacked on, Right, Lucy?
Yes, yes, HELL yes. That’s what Lucy would say. The last couple of days I’ve felt tiny tingling sparks of hope, allowing myself to imagine how I’m going to feel when it all plays out. To think I might actually finish this thing . . . no, not “might”–I will. I’m going to. You know what? Fuck big girl panties.
Lucy would say, We both know Superman don’t need big girl panties, kk.
Superman just needs to finish her damn book.