A Good Excuse

Still trudging. I can't decide if it's wiser to force myself to write--and thus resurrect my writing self--or to pursue other objects {I have plenty} and wait for writing to assert itself. The former seems wiser because a skill was never developed by lack of practice. But the second is winning out because it's easier to write when I want to, and I got tired of watching the words drip like molasses from my fingertips.

{They're not supposed to drip like molasses. They're supposed to flow like a rippling stream.}

I've spent my non-writing time reading. That's been fun. I'm discovering that Young Adult dystopia is taking on a feel of its own. Which would be a good thing, except that the result is a bunch of books that are difficult to distinguish from each other. What made The Hunger Games unique is that it was, well, different. Why can't we apply that same reasoning to the books that continue to be published?

I should stop criticizing books and write my own. It's taking shape nicely in my head. The trouble occurs when I arrive at paper. Or screen, as the case may be. The words don't come like they used to.

Practice. I should practice. I should just write, no matter how bad it is. I am a writer.

It's just so hard to put words on paper and see them be awful. After I've seen how lovely they can be once edited. This is why sophomore novels don't always turn out right.

Sigh. Sigh, sigh, sigh.

All I know is, the last thing I want on my epitaph is the following: Here lies Melody. She did nothing, but she had a good excuse.