Do you ever stare at a blank Word document and watch the cursor blink like one of those obnoxious metronomes? Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. I was sitting in front of my computer today, staring at the cursor, trying to do anything except think about my writing future. At this very moment, an agent might be reading excerpts from my novel and with every word, determining my fate as a published author.
It’s not that I don’t have enough to do in the day except sit here and think. I am a fairly busy person – with a job and a quickly approaching wedding. But somehow I find myself sitting in front of my computer wanting to do nothing else except write.
My thoughts flutter about possible sequel ideas – imagining where my characters might go and what could happen to them in their future. But for some reason, I can’t let myself go there. I won’t let myself go there. Until I know that someone really believes in my story, it’s hard to start something new, hard to continue the story.
The weird thing is, from the very beginning, my novel wasn’t about anyone else. It was about me. It was about me exploring some other strangely familiar place, filled with characters that I know so deeply, like some old, cherished friends.
So why now? Why am I suddenly so hell-bent on what others think about my world and my characters? I know I want other people to love them like I do. But why should that stop me from doing more, from creating more?
Maybe it’s time for me to stop analyzing and get back to where I started. Brave the tick tock of the blinking cursor and do what I love – write.