Waiting.............and waiting some more.

Some time ago I blogged about sending my Uncle the first pages of my novel to read. As a published professional, I was very worried, anxious even about sharing my words with him. Would he enjoy my words? Or be able to even read them. Was what I saw and felt really what other's would read?

These are hard questions. What in my mind is fantastic and an emotional journey, could be stale and boring to someone else. Stephen King said that writing was like being an archaeologist, but instead of pulling a large bone from the ground, we try to describe it piece by piece, hoping that what you see in your mind, is what we see in ours. The gift of the writer is the ability to describe this bone, this fossil in such a way that it stays intact as we expose it. Now I'm sure I don't say what King said as eloquently or as easy to understand, but what he says is important. What lives in our mind is fresh and beautiful, but what transfers to the paper can lose so much of what our feeble words try to convey.

I will always believe that writing is art. But like any painting or sculpture the beauty of said art is in the eye of the beholder.

So as I wait to hear back from my Uncle, I type some pages, and cut some more. I search my word frequency on what has already been written and then write another chapter, cutting and creating in equal time. When I'm not writing I'm spending time with my grandma, while balancing my family life at home.

Wanting to self-publish is so much harder than I ever expected, I am the writer, editor, marketing director, book cover creator, and number one fan. My job is never done. Sometimes I resent it, hating that this obsession has taken over so much of my life. Like a sickness it's under my skin, breeding and taking over all of my other cells. It's in me now, and I can't sleep if I don't write it, or express it. If I gave up now I'd never sleep again. It would eat at me, waiting to be told. I love writing. I love it more than I ever thought possible. I wish that when I started as a teenager I would have understood then how much it was a part of me, this need, this want.

I'm forgetting what my whole post was supposed to be about now. My insecurities or my anal retentive tendencies,and my obsession. I really am going crazy waiting. Waiting, for that email that says what I fear the most, that I am horrible, and I'd be better off burning my novel in the backyard.