...imagining juicy explosions for my readers...
But I have this damned manilla folder, and all those journals, and the files for the book are spread out now over three different computers and a flash stick. I THINK I know which versions are the latest. I THINK I can put together a working first draft, to the point I have it.
Sometimes I worry that I don't want to examine my older work too closely not because I think it won't be any good but because I will find evidence of my own laziness. I think I'll discover that I just haven't worked hard enough over the years, that I haven't done enough or typed enough or thought enough.
It's a struggle to convince myself that the truth is simple -- I haven't done all the writing I will do in my life, but I have done a lot. I shouldn't be chastising myself for the writing I haven't done without praising myself for what I have accomplished.
If I don't, why should I expect anyone else will? After all, who knows better what I've done so far than me?
And the work IS fun. I forget sometimes that the reason I write is because I LIKE to. I love ferreting out those stories that my characters are sometimes so reluctant to divulge it takes years to understand them.
That's the pleasure of writing, and the frustration. Everything comes in its own time, and it's no use sometimes rushing it.
But when I can't go any further, I can always go back to transcribing. And organizing.
So, back to the manilla folder. I've already discovered a beautiful epilogue I wrote years ago for "The Red Ring." I've forgotten it entirely -- I might think it isn't mine except I recognize the crappy handwriting.
There are pleasant surprises in this organizing process, much more than disappointments that I've lost a piece of writing or a note I thought I'd made. The key is just to keep having fun, I guess, and to remember that I am fortunate that the work I have chosen for my life is also the best kind of play.