Goals and Motivation

I sat at my desk. The subtle glow my Mac unfocused my eyes. I stared, wished, hoped.

And where are the words?

So, Scrivener is a fantastic product. I’ve used it now for about two years. I love it, and won’t trade it anytime soon. I carry two Moleskines – a small, soft ruled and a large, hardcover plain. I read a lot, currently Iain M. Banks, Truby, Ol’ Fitzy, and a little Tolkien. Oh, and Stephen King. Maybe some more. I sit in front of a computer on-and-off for approximately 10 hours by four days per week.

But where are the words?

Cummulatively, in the past six months, I’ve composed fewer than 50,000 of them into some sort of conglomerate, prissy, pretentious notion that I may or may not be, at some level of my psyche, a writer. I’ve read the books – Bird by Bird, On Writing, King & Browne, Strunk & White. Writer’s Market. That other one. Angry Birds, you know, for downtime. I have a nookColor (still no update–ten days left, B&N).

I still sit and stutter at the keyboard, stilted by the ideas, shafted by the vocab, and abandoned by my fingers, which at other times will blast through 90 WPM (or 61, whatever).

Why is that?

Why is it that I sit here, touting myself as writer, but never roaring, never shouting the message that beats inside. Why not spit the story out, feral, angst-ridden, and ornery across the page? What is there holding me back?

The short answer: I have no effing clue.

I sit at my desk. The affectionate billow of my fingers across the keys comes as as a shock and I stop. I look at the words I have before me, hunt more, spend some time with my site, with my ideabox, with some drafts and notebooks and angry birds and Machen, King, Fitz, Dumas, and a lot of the kids from the playground of literature. I looked at R.A. Salvatore, at the New York Times Bestsellers list, I watched the art flow from everyone else and realized… It’s time I got off my ass.

I am writer, see me write.

Look for a special treat at the end of June, this year.