grievances

This may be a bit ironic, or perhaps wise. I'm trying to write a novel and I have all the alchemy in my head but when I put it down, it sounds so snarky and really concise, which obviously...isn't my style. And I hate the way it looks and more so, the way it sounds. I have the ideas in my head, it's been brewing for ages and I did start something earlier this month, but I can't stand it now. I'm not sure if I've lit it on fire now, if I'm being far too cerebral, if I'm so conscious of what I'm doing it sounds so nasty and so forced.

For starters, I'm a fast typist. Secondly, I'm a very fast writer. My fingers can think faster that my mind sometimes making the whole writing process a breeze. I had no problems in university writing papers the day before they were due, even 5000 word essays because I find it easy to clear my mind and think streamlined. I used to constantly write short stories when I was younger. From the time we had our first computer up until the end of highschool, I was constantly writing short stories that my parents would read. My final project in OAC drama was to write a play, and did. And it was performed in front of the school and family.

And even blogging, I use this as a tool to harness ideas and it helps me write concise anecdotes whether they're meaningful or not. And I have a written journal, that's used to mostly wax lyrical about my great life, something I wouldn't ever want anyone to read. Those methods have proved highly successful for me.

Why am I failing at this? I was talking to Chris about this the other night that I'm so intimidated by this criticism because he works in publishing and knows the inner frameworks of what is deemed successful. Not that I'm thriving on being that but knowing what Chris knows and letting him edit my work makes me not want to write anything. Which is maybe some sort of subconscious block on my abilities. He reads my blogs and for some reason I have no problem with that, full restitution.

My fingers are tapping out a beat on the keyboard, without pushing down on the buttons. Something else I do when I'm concentrating maybe too hard. Which I think I am. Doing it again. I think this is how sexual frustration must feel for a teenage boy. Knowing that should be able to do something, probably quite well, but you have to keep practicing on your own.