Self-doubt, venting, insecurity, paralyzed. I'm writing a list of distractions. This is legitimized because it is an actual writing exercise I saw in one of my instruction books. Using lists is also fine. It's like brainstorming.
I'm writing a novel. It's a young adult novel. I'm hoping it will be read and enjoyed by adults too. In fact, I'm not scrimping on the vocabulary or talking down to my readers. Don't laugh. Maybe my vocabulary bank isn't that advanced yet to worry about it.
But I'm confused and overwhelmed. I don't know how to develop dialogue. I don't know if there is enough crisis, enough humor, enough of a smooth organized story line. I tend to pile everything in all at once, because to me it all connects. Should I read more? What if I'm rejected? My sister promised that I would be. I know this. I know it's part and parcel of the craft. She says, write it anyway. Write everyday.
Should I let you all in on it? Does anyone care?
Lets' put it this way. I'm inspired by a book by Betty Smith called, A Tree Grows In Brooklyn. I'm drawn to impoverished coming of age teenage girls. I still see myself that way, often. Let me clarify. there is often a fine line between perception and reality. Kind of like the anorexic girl who thinks she's fat. My favorite part of the book is when the immigrant grandmother who speaks in broken English instructs her adult daughter about how to raise her newborn daughter. She's emphatic about encouraging the child to believe in St. Nicholas until age six. This belief will grow her imagination and help her escape into fantasy when life gets painful.
So, here I sit listening to my new Ipod. A conglomeration of music throughout my ages is mostly collected on this sleek blue technological square of wonder. I grew up listening to the radio. I remember hearing when Elvis died, chipping mud off my sneaker.
Simon & Garfunkel perform Kathy's Song. I am relaxed, and melded into yesterdays, todays, and tomorrows, coming of age, further...as I procrastinate in writing my novel.