A quiet retrospect on this #TuesdayswithTaryn

Been thinking lately about how quiet I've been. I've been more crafty than writerly in my mood. Making homemade gifts for my loved ones feeds my soul and blesses me with a form of joy I can only get from doing those kinds of things (even when some people look at me like I've lost my ever-loving crafty mind), but tonight I keep thinking about my stories and the joy they used to bring me- those written, those not yet finished, and even those not yet begun & I feel melancholy.

I miss writing- I mean I miss it so much it hurts. It feels like I have a deep black hole in my heart because it's missing and yet, I don't know how to get back to it. Certain revelations about myself as a writer, about my stories, my characters, what's lacking in the stories I've written has bogged down my creative juices for months, and the process just doesn't want to come to me. I feel alone in this journey and have at times wondered what I'm even doing and why.

I know WHY- it's because my heart does not stop desiring to put words to page, even when I'm feeling creatively blocked, emotionally disconnected, and frozen in place by fear and self-loathing of myself as a writer. Self-doubts and misgivings press in on me from all sides and make me question whether the stories I have written and want to tell are even worth it. I keep thinking that there are so many other more talented authors out there and that what I have to offer would fall short of the readers' expectations, and mine.

I know I have a lot of work ahead of me and there are changes I need to make to my characters- in their personalities, their strengths and their flaws, the very essence of their stories and who they are. I feel so overwhelmed by it that I can't even begin... Every time I think of opening a file and working on it, I feel panicky and scared- and I'm not sure what scares me more....the fact that what I might find could be trash by my own standards, or might be trash in the eyes of others----

And worse yet, what if it only serves to reveal to me that I'm a sub-par author with little to offer in the way of a heartfelt story that touches a reader and proves that I'm nothing more than a fraud--- that silly dancing chicken on a hotplate. (I seem to recall that being something George Strait talked about in Pure Country when he was tired of all the razzle-dazzle of the business and how he felt like that dancing chicken- which seemed like a neat trick at a county fair or something, but in truth, it was just on a hotplate, burning it's feet and just dancing as fast as it could to get away.)

I do think a lot of it has to do with the fact that it's not just one book, but many, that I know I need to take a good hard look at and decide their fate through editing, rewrites,(and it might mean massive rewrites) before I can move forward with my plans to self-pub. Some days I wonder if I should even continue, but its nights like this when the ache to get back to work on it burns so brightly it hurts my chest and brings tears to my eyes.

I will sleep on it tonight- hopefully.... and maybe this is just a sign that my time to come back to it is drawing closer....that I need writing to quench a thirst I can't quite seem to vanquish...