You guys have read bits and pieces of some of the things I’ve written. Most of which have been excersizes to keep my brain in a creative state. And I appreciate the support you’ve shown. But recently I’ve picked up a project that I had started about 8 years ago, fresh out of high school. It started out as nothing more than characters I had created to pass the time I spent in a boring history lecture each week. I didn’t cut up, I didn’t pass notes (or take them in that class, if I’m being honest lol), I just wrote about these characters’ lives. The more I wrote about them, the more I grew to love them. And the more I loved them, the more I felt that they deserved to be a finished project.
So I tried to build around them. I pushed and pushed and forced ink into paper. The more I forced, the more watered down their world became. And I grew to resent the whole thing, including my writing. I talked myself out of completing it, made myself believe that it wasn’t worth writing because people wouldn’t find it worth reading. And if people weren’t going to read it, what was the point?
Eight years ago I tucked away my binder full of notes and backgrounds and snarky conversations. I gave up.
I’ve decided that those characters are still worthy of a finished project. A published project. I’ve grown a lot since then in my heart and my mind. I have support I didn’t have then. And I have you. *high five* I’m sure this will be a long journey, and I’m sure it won’t be easy. But hey, it’s already been 8 years, what’s one more, right??
So here’s to finished projects, to new novels, and the friends that we made up on paper because we couldn’t find them close enough.
Stay weird, yall XOXO ❤️