Regardless of the virus, I'd probably be struggling right about now anyway. I started the month with a plan to write a literary novel in short stories -- a character study about how the different pieces of our lives add up to the people we become. It was a deeply personal project, and one I hoped would be beautiful and poignant. I wrote roughly 2,500 words on the first day, but none of it compared to the vision in my head for what this book could and should be.
Then on Day 2, I woke up with a head full of zombies, vampires and steampunk. I decided to switch horses mid-stream and write this new idea (which really was a continuation of an old idea) because it would be more "fun."
So, aside from being sick, I've been trying to write this second idea and not having much fun. I feel guilty for abandoning my first idea. Essentially, there's a war going on inside my head between the voice that whispers to me that I'm better than this campy steampunk action/adventure I'm now writing, and the one that derailed me to begin with by telling me I wasn't talented enough or skilled enough to write beautiful prose that would move people.
I am struggling, have been struggling, will continue to struggle to figure out just what kind of writer I am. There are people who tell me to just do what I love, but it's not quite that simple. I love imagining monsters and zeppelins and kick-ass heroines, but I also love the artistic satisfaction of producing a beautiful turn of phrase or writing something that contains some kernel of a universal truth.
So I'm lost and confused and finding little joy in the writing this month, and I don't quite know how to overcome this obstacle. Maybe I'll just work on both.
