Confessions of a Frustrated Author

Anyone who knows me can assure you of one thing: I love to read. That characteristic defines me more than almost any other. In my youth, all my peers knew that the Grubbworm was also a Bookworm. And I'm certainly not ashamed of it, then or now; indeed, I want to make my living by it: reading books I love and telling others about them.

But, as with many other bibliophiles, I am not content merely to enjoy the books of others--I want to write my own. And this, dear readers, is the problem: a nagging desire that never attains its object.

Not from a lack of ideas--certainly not that. For my mind teems with ideas, like an ocean's worth of fishes. And I remember all of them: plots, characters, and settings conceived as far back as middle school still wander out in the Back 40 of my imagination, and the population always grows. This is its own problem: where do I begin? Which ideas have promise, and which are too scant, too complex, or too derivative? Athena-like, one notion is born in a moment and commands the stage: I make notes, do some research on the internet or at the library, perhaps even draft an outline. Then I hit an obstacle and the energy dissipates, or a new notion bursts onto the stage, distracting my all-too-flighty fancy. So my imagination--and my PC's documents folder--looks like the warehouse at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark: wonders packed in crates, sealed up, never to be seen again.

I have sometimes thought that my projects never finish because they are only done to please me. I am the only one who knows and cares about these stories--and I am not afraid to disappoint myself. This seemed to present a solution: involve others, make them interested, make them care, and then let their energy push me through to the end. So I tried it--my readers may remember the unfinished Viking story--and it ended like the others nonetheless.

The reason was different, that time: I didn't know what to do next and felt unable to cope as a writer with the plot I'd laid out for myself. Also, I was unhappy with my prose. I had wanted to it to be terse and tense, but instead it merely felt stilted and colorless. I felt like I was doing an impression of someone else--I don't know who--and the unnaturalness of it began to rankle. I oughtn't to write in any voice but my own, or at least another's voice that I can passably feign. So I abandoned the Viking story in the end--and, for all I know now, it may never be finished.

Yet I am still discontented. I want to write such stories as I like to read, and to share what's in my imagination with others who'd appreciate it. But I'm picky: my children will wear the right clothes when they go out or they'll not go out at all. And (worse) I'm indolent: the work is daunting and the prospect of reward--even of personal satisfaction--is uncertain.

I need a book.