okay, well, there’s another news article in the newspaper of a woman just a tad older than i am who wrote a book–i’m totally jealous. why can’t i just be an author? i mean, i have tons of good story ideas. tons.

so why can’t i write a book? this is the conversation i have with myself most every day:

me: i should write today–not just the blog, but the nanowrimo novel.

inner me: what? nobody wants to read your silly prose. there’s no metaphors!

me: but the idea is really good. somer liked what she read of it.

inner me: but you know your writing is not up to par. you know so many other people have great ideas AND great writing.

me: but shouldn’t i try? shouldn’t i put some more effort into the novel? i mean there’s 51, 000 words, for crying out loud!

inner me: give me a break! you had to add song lyrics, poetry, and dares to get the word count up. you weren’t worried about the story–just the word count. you just wanted a winner’s banner WHICH YOU DON’T EVEN DISPLAY!

me: i can do this. i just need more…

inner me: TIME. yes. i know. you keep saying that to yourself and to other people. but when you have time, do you write? no. you think about school. or you read. or, if there’s a football, basketball, or baseball game on, you watch it. you don’t write. you don’t really want to finish that novel.

me: i do! i do. i think i do.

inner me: i’m just here to give you tough love. if you really wanted to write, you’d carve out the time. you’ve blogged for 25 straight days. if you really wanted to spend your energy on that novel, you could. but you don’t.

me: i should. i think i can. soon. maybe.

(okay, well, i have some issues!! 🙂 )

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