Well, I suppose since I’ve already made a reference to the writing tip of the week, I thought I would talk about other things. (In case you haven’t been following daily, I made a reference a few posts back. If not yesterday. My memory seems to fail me at crucial moments.)

I still have writer’s block and as such, little words have been written. I now know that it’s not necessarily about the amount of words that are written, but the actual words. (Reference to the tip.) It just can’t escape me that I did make a personal promise to write each and every day something that comes to mind, whether utterly significant or not. I suppose I have, really. I do type here, I write in my journal, I write in my planner, I even write essays for scholarships; yet I can’t seem to find the words to write for the story; to continue my characters’ lives.

As of yesterday, I’ve hit 70 pages. Seventy pages and not too many words. Right now, the grand total is 16,361. Last week sometime (again, memory problems), I printed out what I had written, which was approximately 26 pages. I keep it paperclipped and near me at all times. When I get stuck and stumble over my words, I pick it up and it feels real.

I’m not trying to get all sentimental, but holding the printed manuscript makes it all feel real; and that I know if I don’t finish this, if I don’t find the words to complete the story, it’ll all disappear. Perhaps it’s this self-inflicted fear that rendered my fingers useless and has taken my muse hostage, I’m not sure.

All I do know is that I haven’t been able to write decently in a few days, except for yesterday or the day before where I had to force myself to type, but it all felt unnatural as if the words themselves didn’t belong.

Upon finishing the first draft, those words will no doubt stick out like a sore thumb (if I may use an overused cliche), and will promptly be removed, but as a rule, I don’t delete anything until after finishing.

If you went into this year thinking that being a writer was an easy job or past time, don’t be fooled. I thought the same thing too years ago. Living up to the job is difficult and I’m constantly challenging myself, beating myself up, holding myself for ransom, and quite possibly be going mental because of it.

But even through all that, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

And that, my friends, is the writer’s confession.