Odd Coincidences?  Hum.  Don’t have one.  Really I don’t.  At least not anything that stands out. 

My feeling is everything happens for a reason.  One action puts another series of actions into motion. 

Like my latest book.  I’ve worked and reworked the plot until I was frustrated and at my wits end, deadline encroaching.  I dumped it, started over, and I’m glad.  It had the elements of a good story, I just couldn’t make them work.  My eternal regret is that I wasted months trying to force it and now my mantra is, if it doesn’t work in my plot sheet, stop there, move on, find something new.  That has been my rule of thumb, why I didn’t follow, who knows?  I sure as hell don’t.

I have created a plot work up sheet that I can fill out and if a plot works (for my type of novels) I can do it in minutes.  If not, I struggle.  But I chose to ignore that.  You’d think after 36 books I’d have it down, but no.  Welcome to doubting my talent-central. 

Now I’m a strong person, and I know ME, but this time, I forgot everything.  I kept blaming my year off when I turned 50 but 2 years later, I’m still struggling.  Not with the writing, but with the pace of plotting.  (and quite a bit of no ass in chair syndrome)

I shot myself in the foot by not getting right back to the routine that enabled me to write all those books in the past.  The same routine that Maureen Child taught me years ago.  To add to this every growing doubt, I immersed in writer stuff; workshops, my fav writer books, but that only made it worse.  I kept thinking ‘I know this, why can’t I keep that while I’m writing?”  

My frustration was so debilitating, I could have walked away from writing and gone back to doing hair.  Yes, it was that bad.  I thought, ‘That’s it, it was a nice career while it lasted.’

Yes, this is a confession, and I do it because I want my ass kicked.  Need it.  Rhonda, bless her heart, called often with, “how many pages today?”  I love her for that.  I want to write more.  I want to write like I did in the 90’s!  I have new stories I want to tell, and it wasn’t until I finally admitted defeat and dumped those eight chapters that it came rushing back.  

The ‘it’ being my drive, my love of writing… and ideas! (some confidence too)

I tried a new idea, and it literally plotted itself.  That made me recognize that it wasn’t a lack of ideas, but not giving up on the bad ones, despite all the signals.  'Finish what I start' was hammered into me as a kid.  Apparently, its never left.   I learned sometimes the work shouldn't be finished. 

I was treading in murky water, and now I swim in the clear end of the pool.  I'm pushing through to the deep end.

So… I’ve confessed.  I own my extreme stupidity.

Tell me I'm not alone!

Share your frustrations about writing a book, whatever it is.   Cuz no one knows what its like to be a writer, except those who write. And are neurotic about it!

Amy