I am so sick of this story that I’m trying to write for NaNoWriMo. I don’t care about it anymore. I don’t even like it anymore. At this point I’m seriously wondering whether or not it’s worth finishing. Sure, that would mean losing NaNoWriMo, which would kind of suck (especially since I’ve easily written a book in a month before), but I’m reaching a point where I have to wonder, what’s the reason I’m writing? Is it just so I can say I finished NaNoWriMo this year? Is it for personal enjoyment? To learn? To share a story that needs to be told? I’m not enjoying this. It doesn’t seem like it’s teaching me much. The story hardly exists (at least not in terms of plot or interesting, believable characters), let alone needs to be told. Is finishing NaNoWriMo really worth forcing myself to keep writing something that I’ve totally lost interest in and don’t think will ever be good or worth reading?
And I had a great setting, too. A really interesting world that featured vast wilds and castles built on the backs of giant snails. But now I think I’ve done something that I’ve always been afraid would happen: I snatched at the world before it was ready to be written about. It had been forming on the edges of my mind, ephemeral, fleeting wisps of another reality. It was beautiful. But I should have let it go for now. I only took up this story because the story I had originally been planning to write for NaNoWriMo didn’t work out–I sat down to write and couldn’t connect with the main character. So I started this one, which went beautifully at first. But now I can hardly stand it. I went after it before it was ready, and now, for the moment at least, it’s been ruined. So what do I do?
And again this brings me back to the question: why am I writing this story? Why do I write, in general? I suppose I’m writing this story because it was the only thing that it seemed like I could write. Despite all the ideas I have waiting to be written, this was the one that leaped out at me, that demanded to be written when I realized my original plan wouldn’t work. I didn’t know what it was about then. I still don’t know what it’s about. But I felt that I should write it, and so I started. I wish I could get back the feeling that started this story. My instincts are rarely ever wrong. So I suppose I should be writing what I’m writing. But maybe I don’t know it well enough yet. Maybe I just haven’t seen what is supposed to come of it. Maybe I should keep going.
But what am I writing for? I write because stories are beautiful and life would be almost pointless without them. They shape the way we perceive the world and they are worlds within themselves. Without fantasy and without make believe there is a bit of the heart missing. Humans need stories. I need stories. Also if it is within my ability to create something beautiful than I should create it. Because creating beauty is one of the highest things a human can do. You can create beauty in all sorts of ways. But writing stories is one of the ways I do it which is most dear to my heart. And of course, I also write stories because I enjoy writing. It’s the joy of creation and of seeing another world come to life inside your head. It’s a joy that not everyone can experience and I feel blessed to be gifted with the skills of a storyteller. But is the story I’m writing beautiful? Is it worth it? Or is it just dust that doesn’t matter to me and won’t matter to anyone else? I’m tired of it, that’s for sure. But maybe it’s more important than my enjoyment. Maybe I won’t know until I finish it how important it might be.
I want to give up on it, but I suppose I won’t, not yet. If only the silly thing would be easier to write!