So, without making any New Year's Resolutions, I have found myself doing two things consistently every morning; making my bed neatly and journaling. I also found myself returning to my novel; that is, I worked at converting my hand-written draft into text files. You know, typing what I had written.
Sign.
I love the act of writing, of creating something out of nothing, of just letting the story flow without care or consideration of opinion; mine or any other persons. But the drudgery of simply typing what I have already written is agony. I find myself wrapped up in criticizing my character development; my sentence structure; my plot. GAH!
Well, anyway, I felt the desire to share with you my own private agony. Mostly because I am sure a few will agree with me, while a majority of others will condescendingly point out that my agony is minuscule in comparison to theirs.
Whatever.
Again, Post Dramatic Catholicism rears its ugly head.
I really can think too much.
Sign.
I love the act of writing, of creating something out of nothing, of just letting the story flow without care or consideration of opinion; mine or any other persons. But the drudgery of simply typing what I have already written is agony. I find myself wrapped up in criticizing my character development; my sentence structure; my plot. GAH!
Well, anyway, I felt the desire to share with you my own private agony. Mostly because I am sure a few will agree with me, while a majority of others will condescendingly point out that my agony is minuscule in comparison to theirs.
Whatever.
Again, Post Dramatic Catholicism rears its ugly head.
I really can think too much.
