Six years ago I had made up my mind that I was going to write. I grabbed my laptop and I worded as many words as I could. It felt GREAT and it was amazing. The only problem was, I have ADHD. My hyperfocus kicked into hyperdrive and all I did was sit in front of my laptop wording those words. My dishes sat undone, my bathroom looked like a bomb had gone off in it, and my body was starting to smell a bit. At one point I looked up from my writing and looked around and I was appalled at myself. Instead of spurring into action to correct the mess, I sat and had a good cry. I didn’t know where to start so it was easier to bawl about it than to pick a spot and go from there.
by Valarie Kinney
I’ve been seeing it quite often lately.
In blog posts, in my Facebook feed, on Twitter.
Writers I’ve been interacting with for a few years on social media, who have stated time and again they would never quit. Writing was in their blood, they said, they couldn’t stop even if they wanted to.
by Valarie Kinney
It had been so long since I’d written anything, I’d forgotten the pleasure I had once found in putting my thoughts down on paper.
My life was full and busy, as that of a wife and mother is bound to be. Days were full of running various children to guitar lessons, sports practices, and Scouts meetings. Added to this was the average every day responsibilities: housework, cooking, helping with homework, doctor’s appointments.
In the literary world, there is no cliche more timeworn and banal than the empty page. Countless movies and television shows have portrayed this inconspicuous menace in all its unvarnished glory. You’ve all seen it, I’m sure. The eight-and-a-half by eleven crisp sheet tucked neatly into a typewriter. It’s self-important barrenness, mocking the timid writer. Or more recently, the pale, vacuous computer screen. Vacant, besides the black, thin yet sinister cursor. The one blinking in wait. Tempting and taunting. Daring you to take a shot. Condemning you for balking. Judging and teasing. C’mon, it appears to be asking. Let’s see what you got?
Can you read your story without feeling the urge to rewrite every other sentence? If you can’t get through reading your story without reaching for the red pen, cringing, or throwing the pen against the wall, it might not be ready to publish.
Before publishing my first book, a historical novel called A Decent Woman, I’d read individual chapters of the manuscript…oh, at least a hundred times. I read the complete manuscript three times before and after incorporating my editor and proofreader’s changes, which were golden. I was blessed they understood me and where I was headed with my story.