October 21, 2015

Pulling out my hair

Writing a book is a horrific experience. Filled with many late nights, many cups of coffee and I don't even like coffee I just drink it because it makes me stay awake. Not to mention aggravated parents because you stay up so late. Tears. And plenty of tears.

I just turned in seventeen chapters to my editor and I'm panicking. To me writing is something I do with every fiber of my being. I put my heart and soul into everything that I write and I know this draft isn't perfect so there will be some constructive criticism.

I never knew how close I was to being finished until talking to my editor. All I need to do is write and ending then I'm done drafting. Easier said than done. 

There is so much going on I just can't get myself to write my story. It feels like the world is trying to throw everything at me all at once so I can't do this. Writing is my escape, but it's like I'm locked in a jail cell, searching for the keys through the bars and coming up empty. 

If feels like I'm never going to finish, that twenty years from now people will come up to me and ask me how my book is doing and I'll tell them the same thing I've told all of you. "I submitted seventeen chapters to my editor and all I need is an ending." 

Oh God help, please.