I want to write.
Even my sister, who’s never read a word, told me that I need to get over my fears and do it, edit, send it off to people.
I’ve sent it off to people.
Every time I look at my novel I feel both better and worse. I touch up a few things, take out a word here, add a word there, make a few more connections from here to there. It’s like weaving a hammock, and every little knot makes it more structurally sound.
And now that I can lay in it, I’ve taken to weaving in flowers. Dying the rope. Making it pretty, not just serviceable. And I’m happy.
And I’m locked.
My stomach has been churning at top speed. My fingernails have been bitten away to shards. I’m breaking out in welts.
I need to get this book out.
It’s not ready.
That’s the thing, it’s not ready. It’s not good enough. I’ve been writing since I was in second grade and I’ve been writing books since I was twelve and this is my tenth year writing novels, my eighth novel, and it’s not good enough, not yet. But what can I do to improve?
I know it’s good. But it’s not great. It’s ignorable, and I don’t want that. This is something I have been putting every ounce of my being into, every drop of my soul.
I have agonized over every paragraph, and yet it’s not good enough.
I know it will never be perfect in my mind, but my heart won’t agree.
I must be a designer, not just an architect.