I, just need a moment really. Honest just a sec *ScRReeAAM!*
Okay! So here we are in the mud pit again. I'm so stuuuuuuck. I'm still setting up barriers to my own creativity because I'm afaid of where it'll end up - more to the point I'm afraid that if I open up, let all those creative juices flow (erk, that sounds icky. Flowing juices. *snigger*) and I feel great, proud, inspired and confident that it will only take one negative comment to knock me back into the mud pit. So maybe wallowing in the mud isn't so bad. Sure it's mud, but you know - look at my complexion!
Baby steps. Fucking baby steps. I keep leaping ahead to try and form a completed project and yet forget the wee steps needed to build it properly. OR I dive headlong into something else creative, yeah, and tell myself it's maybe my truer calling. Fuck that I'm supposed to write. I know it. Deep in my very soul I'm a writer, and yet I'm too fucking terrified to submit a dmned thing. I'm too terrified to even write just now! Do you know what it's like to have all those ideas running about my head, all those people who want me to write their story and I Just Can't? Will they shut up? NO. Will they give me a break? NO. They are seriously becoming "The voices in my head" and they're getting pissed off at me.
It's not even that I can't take critique - I can! honest and true. I can. I love it, I long for it. I just don't want to find out that I'm not really a writer. I'm certain I am, so to find out really I'm a financier or animal trainer or lobbyist, would crush me. I mean, Crush.
I'm such a pussy, it makes me sick.
What's brought on this new rush of writer's panic? I found my old Psion 5, which was my first ever portable word processor. I wanted it so bad, to develop my writing, that I took out my first ever loan from the bank to buy it (It cost me £500). Took three years to pay it off. This was before I understood the trap of interest rates, but that's not for now. I loved it, I wrote in it all the time. It had many many outpourings of of heart with in, including my pregnancy diary. then one day I went to use it and the batteries had died. All files erased. Just gone. I was so unbearably crushed I locked the Psion in the closet and forgot it. I hated it. The fucking traitor! That was in 1999.
I just found it again. The thing still makes me feel sick to my stomach. I know I'm more angry at myself but it just represents my biggest disappointment in my life. Where I failed so spectacularly that I've never forgiven myself. I never took the time to properly understand the technology on how to back up the files to the PC. I can't begin to tell you how even being near that thing makes me feel. Despair, doesn't even touch on it. I didn't even have handwritten copies, or rough drafts: nothing. All gone. Like it never existed. And my memory is so unreliable.
I need to find a way to get over this. It's what's stopping me from going on. It's what's holding me back. But I'm not sure where to even begin to try and untangle the mess. I have the beginning, and I know where I want to end; with a finished manuscript. But how to fix the middle, I just can't see it. I'm too close.
Any advice? Apart from "Get the fuck over yourself and move on!" which hasn't worked as I say it to myself all the time. Please, I've got mud in places no woman should have mud.