Okay, I admit the title is a lie, well not a lie... more of an exaggeration. So many more things worse than this could under the title of the worst kind of struggle.
What is my supposed worst kind of struggle? It's a lot like a writer's block, but not quite the same. It's writer's resistance. I've actually made it to the end of this novel, or should I say I've written to the end section. Now that I'm staring down the finish line, what do I do? I stare at the screen for a bit and then turn on the television, or pick up a book, or clean the house... the list goes on from there and gets more and more pitiful.
I'm fighting writing the end of this novel. It's not like I don't know what happens. It's not like I don't like the ending I'm heading toward. So why am I fighting this? I do know a few possible reasons.
I don't want to say goodbye to characters is a top contender. But, if I'm honest, I've been thinking quite a bit about my next project. So how much can I be worried I'll miss them?
There's also the ever popular fear of failure/success. If I... oops... when I finish this novel, I'll be looking at revising and then the dreaded publishing specter. I think I kinda like this one. It has a loaded, psychology punch to it. What if I actually succeed and get this book out? What if I don't? What if I do and I can't write another? All kinds of good stuff in this one.
The one I dislike the most, that's come to mind in just the last few minutes, is that deep down I'm not really a writer. The supporting evidence not being the 386 pages I've put down so far. But a real, quality, scary and panicky kind of thought, none the less.
I've been told all writer's go through times of self-doubt. I don't know if that's exactly true, but it's certainly believable. I've questioned my skills and talents in other areas before. It's probably something we all go through.
So what do I do? Power through? Head down and nose to the grindstone? ... and stare at a blankish screen where the end of my novel ought to be. Honestly, I'm not sure.
Maybe I need to refill my creative cup. Maybe it's a discipline issue. (I could definitely buy into a discipline issue...) Maybe analyzing it will just give me more to distract myself (hmm... that seems likely).
Somewhere inside there used to be a desire to tell this story. The desire was so great, that I couldn't help but write. There were days I could barely manage to get through my day job, I was so ready to write.
I can only hope that I can find that again. And soon. This story deserves its ending.
