I’m not sure if I’m still suffering from writers block, or if my imaginary friends are quiet.  Or possibly I’m attempting to write stuff that I’m not meant to write?  Is that even possible?  Can a person only be able to write one form of writing about certain subjects & the rest are completely off limits?  Would Stephen King be able to write romance?  Would Nora Roberts be able to write a thriller?  Is it possible for James Patterson to write a science fiction?  (If any of them have, it’s throws my theory out.  I am not well read in all of their books.))

But as I sit here I think of the novel I’ve been working on since November of 2012 & I wonder to myself, am I trying something that is impossible for me to write?  People always tell me that I am capable of writing anything I put my mind to.  But am I?  Honestly.  But then I wonder even more than that, am I really the writer I think I am?  I feel like if I were I would have more writings that are finished.

Maybe I am still trying to find excuses as to why I don’t write more.  Last night I opened up my novel & wrote three paragraphs & then when I was finished, I sat back in my chair & wondered if I even liked what I had wrote.  Do all writers go through this?  I’m almost to the point of cutting off a finger.. or two.  Pull a Picasso and cut my ear off.  But instead of whatever he did – I would put mine in a box & mail it to someone.  Who?  I don’t know.  Who on this planet would want my ear?  I’m joking – mostly.

Honestly, at this point, I have no idea what I’m even talking about.  It’s seven o’clock in the morning & I haven’t been to sleep.  My head is foggy & my body is exhausted.  All I want is to sleep – however, sleep isn’t my friend at the moment.  I know that throughout the day my mind is still on the same thing.. writing.  I still carry a trillion pens, & fifteen hundred notebooks in my purse.  I think if I were to dig I’d find a notebook in my car.  You know, just in case.  I still find myself going out in public with friends and writing on napkins when something hits and I need to write it down.  I still find myself watching or reading something thinking, oh yeah, I need to make a note of that.  It could come in handy for something I could write in the future.  All of the articles I read of writers & authors, they all sound like me.  Everything they say they feel or do – I find it’s exactly what I do or feel.  I love to write.  ((Even simple things like a blog.  Even though I don’t write as much as I used to.))  I just can’t always seem to get the words flowing as easily as I did.  Like when I was between the ages of seventeen & nineteen.  To be quite frank, if I had started a novel at seventeen, I would probably have finished it.  But at seventeen, I had no idea what I liked or wanted to do with my life.  I didn’t realize writing was it until I was in my twenties.

I just need to take it day by day.  One day at a time.  Day.  By.  Day.  I can’t expect the novel to write itself or me write it in three days.  It takes time.  I even know this.  Common sense.  But there will always be a part of me that believes it shouldn’t take YEARS to write a novel especially if you already have the outline of it.

I have faith in myself, always have – I will finish this novel.  When?  That I have no idea.  But I will.  Hopefully before I’m thirty, but at this rate, I honestly don’t know that.

I have always been good at working through problems.  That is what I have right now.  A problem.  So I will trudge on and work through my problem.  Hopefully, I will fix it soon.  But I could always write more of these, at least then I know I’d still be writing, even if it isn’t on my story.

Luck.  I need luck.