I’ve been working on a novel for the past three months.  It was going smashingly well, until I realized how it had to end, and it was an ending I didn’t want.  For most of those three months my intellect has been at war with my creative side, and not nearly enough writing has been done with regards to this novel.

What writing has been going on, you ask?  Half a dozen short stories that have been submitted to various publications for their consideration.  I have not sold one yet, but doing so is a bucket list item for me, so I’m not giving that up until I can check it off.

The last time I stopped having fun on a story, I just stopped writing it all together, and moved on to something else.  I haven’t done that yet, because I want to tell this story.  I genuinely want to tell this story, but I think I am afraid of what I might learn about myself in the process.

It would be so easy to stop, go write some sexy, fluffy, funny stuff that makes you laugh,  and maybe say nice things to me, and I want that, too, but not only that. I want to be able to tell any story, in any genre, and in any way I choose, and I don’t want to fold because of criticism or having to re-invent myself, or because it was hard, and I was afraid.

Now, I either find a way to move on and finish, or put it down and let the fear win for now.  I really don’t know how that’s going to go.


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