My name is wildwriter. I have that name because my writing is still in wild raw form. I am learning to tame it and put it into the graceful art of a beautiful book as it belongs. Sure the ideas are good most of the time and stories and poems spill out easily. Imagination is not usually a problem.
I think books are beautiful. They are gifts to all of our senses. They can take you anywhere in the world or universe or beyond. You can be anything and everything you ever dreamed of just by getting into the character of a good book. Every sense is stimulated. Your imagination peaked beyond everyday usage. You learn, you feel, you understand, you cry, laugh or get angry. So many feelings can be brought out. It is a great therapy. Books are one of man’s greatest creations.
I am a writer. I have to keep reminding myself of this because sometimes a writer comes to a wall and it seems of late I keep running into it. But my head is not so hard that a few rams into the wall and I realize I should climb over it before I knock myself out.
So here I sit in front of my window looking at a beautiful mountain, which should bring motivation, trying to climb the wall. Where it will take me and will I be able to climb it, right now I am not sure except I HAVE TO CLIMB THE WALL, of that there is no doubt.
I have no story in mind, only lots of thoughts and ideas, no motivation for any certain one at this time but I have this burning desire to sit and type and type and type. Of course I would hope at the end of all that typing would be a completely edited and finished fantastic book. And that is my dilemma. How do you go from A to Z without the perfect prompt, that perfect story to reel everyone in? And then how do you tell it just right so that people will want to finish it. I picture it. I see my manuscript being read and an agent calling me telling me they are going to get it published. I see myself signing the paper work after a million and one questions. I question everything. I hear the sigh of relief that this meeting is over even though they are anxious to do it. They know my book is good.
Yes I picture it all. There is the celebration of the book sales, the excitement of seeing my name in print knowing that people all over the world will now read my book and are taken where ever I send them. And then again the mad dash at the keyboard to put out the next one. My hair has grown long and wild. My eyes are bloodshot with big bags under them from lack of sleep. The vision of me is surreal as I watch myself. I am on a roll my eyes are glazed over from the words coming from what is left of my mind.
The sheets of typed paper are stacked high all over. The letters flow like water from a stream coming over the rocks down off a snow covered mountain. The letter to the agents typed, the synopsis, the first 3 chapters perfected, yes it plays like a good movie over and over in my head. BUT, and that is the problem, and the only word that comes to mind at this moment.
I am a writer and I have the story to tell, I just can’t seem to find it right at the moment. I know this is a common condition with writers. Many “hit the wall” at times. What do they do? I have heard lots of ideas but not one that works at the moment. I see myself hunched over the computer from exhaustion. There are four words on the page after what seems like hours of typing. They are: “I AM A WRITER!”