Writer’s Confidence
Tonight I was reading “The Historian” while relaxing after a grueling day of parenting. This is a book I hated, liked, liked a little more, LOST for 3 months after moving, found and hated again, before liking it again. I’m incredibly impressed by the level of research that went into it, which is my all-time least favorite thing to do when writing. In fact, it’s the research that keeps me from writing.
After reading, I took a super-hot shower to relieve my aching sinuses, and of course the first thing that I thought was how I’ll never ever be that good or great a writer. Passable, definitely; popular, possibly; profound? Never. I could never get past stories of whimsical women and romantic men who have nothing more to offer than that.
But then, as I write this, I think of my characters. Adjhani, an exiled princess at age 17 who finds there is more to life than faith, magic and the state and nothing more potent than the power of sacrifice. Or her granddaughter, who ruins her life and finds love and special needs parenting at the end, and a kingdom that requires her to save choose between her family and her country. Or Caroline, a med student that falls in love with a killer and thief, while coping with her mother’s breast cancer battle and her long-dead father’s illness. Or that killer, my favorite character, Louis, who leaves prison to find sin, love, redemption and the danger of a serial killer.
Or the novel I’m planning that is SUCH a great idea I have no doubt it would get me into an MFA program, if only I had my BA.
Not as bad as I thought. There are more stories, but I’ve revealed enough. OK, I agree. I rock.
Back to editing…