Becoming a writer came with more than I thought. Sure you got a good story line, characters and a tale to tell. So you do it. Pay the price in time, use your sitzfleisch and sack your social life to bring your novel to life. Your fingers become messengers while your mind flirts and dashes with a thousand ideas. All the while you’re still trying to maintain a focus and not become sidetracked, sticking to the story. Perseverance furthers, and, if you’re lucky, writing what you’re supposed to be, the story starts writing itself, as it should. You are just the interface. This is a very cool thing, what surfers call being in the zone. So you run with it.
Well, at some point, unless you are a boldfaced liar, you begin to question your self. This is only natural. Hell you’re a hundred and fifty pages into it and there isn’t a person in the world that can answer your queries. Does it make sense? Is it any good? Do you think people will like it? And, especially with my work for its lack of rectitude, who am I going to offend?
At moments like this I consult the doctor:
Be who you are and say what you feel…
Because those that matter…. don’t mind…
And those that mind… don’t matter.
-Theodor Seuss Geisel (Dr. Seuss)