Long Time Waiting

Amazing how long it has been since I have written to you all. I have been writing. I promise. I been like a greedy child in the corner with a stolen cookie. I'm about 60,000 words into a novel. A novel that has taken most of my writing energy and thought. To be honest the only reason that I am now writing here is because I am, once again, stuck.

Sometimes writing a story is like writing a love letter. You write from your heart. You want the words to be true and fit perfectly. You want the reader to fully understand what you feel. There is a relationship in a letter, a sure connection between the writer and the reader. There is a set understanding of the reality and although there might be questions, you at least both know what the questions are. In a story you must write as if the other person knows the world of which you write. And yet you must also teach them more about your world. Its a strange balance. But more then this writing a story is like writing a letter to the characters you have created. The characters know the world in which they live, they understand what the norm is. The characters know what you tell them and do what you say. But they don't know the author, well not unless the author writes themselves in the story.

So I have been sitting in the corner with my story or my love letter or what ever you want to call it. It is far from finished, but a year a go I at only the begining of it. I had the smallest understanding of the characters and the story. I knew where the story was headed, but the meat was still missing. This year is the year to finish the meat, to get it ready for cooking. At some point I will prepare it and let you all eat up the glorious feast (hope it is worth the wait). To get back to my story is my hope and my nightmare. I can feel that the end is near. I'm cooking and can almost taste the meal. But I'm not there yet.

They call its writters block, but it feels more like trying to get out of the way of a run away train. The story is almost more important now then it ever has been. I am in a way a slave to it. And yet the words, which have so long so easily flowed through my typing fingers, have stopped. I can tell my brain is working out what to do next. I knit and think about the characters and the ending. Yes I'm knitting, have to do something. And I write, even if its just a blog entry or a short poem. Anything to get the words tumbling out of my stuck brain. Anything to get my fingers roaming along the key board. Anything to be able to steal another cookie and return to the corner to sulk with my treasure.