Saturday, December 29, 2012


When I hear someone say they are a writer, I think, how boastful.

I've been working on my book for untold months (I actually don't know how many), and I cannot call myself a writer.

I'm a trier.

Sometimes I hate, hate writing.  Certain passages are all wrong.  I don't know how to make them better.  Make them interesting.

I've read and reread and reread what I've written too damn many times, and I waver between thinking it's good and thinking it's awful.  Asking myself, would I even want someone to read this drivel?  And is there even a point to it all?

I don't even know if, when I finally finish this book, I'll bother to have it published.  But I will finish it. 

I'm a trier.  I don't give up, unless something completely bores me.  Pain, yes.  Boredom; I won't bother.

That's not to say I'm not bored with my writings.  I've read some chapters so many times, it's like watching Back To The Future for the eight hundredth time.  Sure, it's fun and all, but you know what's coming, and you can, in fact, recite the dialogue right along with the characters.

That's probably why I keep adding things.  At this rate, my book will never be finished, because I keep coming up with new passages, simply (admittedly) because I'm bored with the old ones.


And here I sit tonight.  Knowing that I should be writing....the book, that is.  Instead, I'm looking for diversions; excuses.

Sigh.  I guess I'd better go.  Pull up that word doc titled, "My Book"....again.

I really gotta keep trying.

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