The monster is the novel. It’s time I stopped planning to write it. It’s time I stopped talking about writing it. It’s time I stopped pondering what to write about. I have options. There are so many things I could write. So many stories to put down into prose. It’s time to get going.
But how do I do it? Where do I begin? And most of all, how do I recognize that the procrastination is really nothing more than ill-disguised fear of failure? I plunge in, that’s how. And I write about writing it here. Because if I post this declaration (I will write this damned novel!) and make it public, than I’ve got to do it. So I’m locking the novelist part of me into a small walk-in closet, handing him a typewriter and walking away. Once a week I’ll check in on him, make sure he’s got celery and carrots and plenty of water in his bottle and let this blog know how he’s doing.
This week’s progress? I’ve decided on a project. It’s Strange Angels. The oft-rewritten script has been bogged down with budget woes. What that means is that I’d look at the scene I’d just written and say to myself, “there’s no way Paramount’s gonna want to shoot this ‘whole world blows up’ sequence. Especially if I set it in Venezuela.” So this will be a novel. I can do with the world as I please.
So check in, if you care. I’m going to learn a lot in the next few months.