When I was 14, I wrote a horror novel. I never finished it.
When I was 18, I wrote a screenplay. It was 127 pages. I never finished it.
In 2012, I started writing a book about relationships and damage. I never finished it.
I don’t know why I can’t finish what I start.
The book I started writing was pretty intense. I wrote at a time in which I was deathly afraid of everything. Going to the store down the block was exhausting. I would often tear up as I wrote. I wrote about sex and fear and awkward thoughts and even more awkward actions, and I love what I wrote.
But, when things became easier for me, the writing stopped.
I don’t know why I do that. When I’m busy and (relatively) free of anxiety, my writing suffers. When I can’t leave my apartment because people make me nervous, I can crank out 10 pages.
2014 is going to be a fucking ridiculous year for me. Marriage, job, new apartment…literally all the big things. But I have to make time for my fiction. And I mean that.
I have to make time for my fiction.
Sometimes when I can’t sleep at night, I look through old blogs. This is a reminder to fucking write my fiction.
So future me, quit making excuses while you sit on the couch. Just grab a pen.