I always say that, in my head or allowed, assuming that thought and plotting counts as starting the writing. But this week, I really did.
I took the plunge, and started writing my book.
The first night of writing was like being punched, repeatedly in the stomach. The very act of writing down, in some cases, I’ve never actually spoken of-it drained like the flu might. Utterly from the bottom. Finding the narrative, the arc to pull my threads from-not nearly has hard as just buckling down and writing.
Blending fiction into my reality-pouring the years out onto paper, making them real outside. Not just real, but meaningful in a scope larger than that which I usually cram in this space.
Facing the person I’ve been.
I stared at my laptop last night, willing myself to write, and found myself scared. Shaking from wet memories I thought I had let go of, even without venting them to the outside. Memory that’s never been confronted.
Fear, untouched, burns.
I don’t know where this will go. With my history, I’ll likely play true to type and not finish, just another project I try and fail at.
But trying counts, right?