Writing for Me

I've been sick for the past three days (working on day four here) which has given me some time to think, not as much as I would have thought though since it turns out when you're super miserable, all you can do is lay somewhere, maybe watch t.v., and slowly die.

Okay, that was a bit dramatic, but you get the point.

While pondering why it's been so long since I've become immersed in a novel while writing it, the thought occurred to me that it's been a while since I've written only for the enjoyment of it. I love the concepts I'm working on. I'm eager to explore. But I want everything to be perfect and I know that no matter what, it won't be. I want to share this story with people someday so I keep thinking about the future when I really just need to write it for me right now.

So there we have it. Perfectionism and future dreams are making this even more difficult  than it already is, which basically means it's all my fault. Go me.

I was hoping to write the past couple of days but I've barely been well enough to read. I still feel awful today but it's better than it's been in two days, so there's that. I've been using this time to mentally coach myself into forgetting about the future of this story (which is hard) and just writing it because it's a story I want to see unfold - to let go of all my expectations.

C.S. Lewis said, "I never exactly made a book. It's rather like taking dictation. I was given things to say."

For some reason, this really speaks to me right now. Right now it feels as if I'm trying to force the words and story to say what I want it to say instead of just letting it be what it is. Every draft has a beginning and sometimes it's really crappy and that's hard to accept sometimes.