It has been awhile since I have mustered the desire to invest time into writing at the end of the day. I know that if I want to be a "writer" then I haven't any other choice. However, I have grown strangely comfortable with my half-hearted effort. When I read stories of other authors who wrote their first book in their spare time while juggling all the rest of life, I tell myself simply that they felt and acted much the same way, there's just no reason to include it in a triumphant story of struggling through to achieve their goals.
I still maintain my goal of finishing a new edit on my second book before the advent of my 40th birthday. It grows more unlikely by the day, but I am clinging to the hope. I am the only one clinging to it, I think. I don't feel like anyone around me is really taking me seriously at this point. This is fine. I haven't given anyone much reason to take me seriously.
Even so, I do feel like I am pressing onward. Currently, I am stuck. I am suck in the prelude of my own story because it is the section with which I am the most unhappy. It might not be the worst section, I am not sure. It is the most pressing to me because it is the part that drives people away from the story before they can make enough headway to care about finishing.
I know what the issues with the prelude are and I have a good idea how to address them. Even so, I am having a lot of trouble getting myself to slog through the rewrite. I've told myself it is because I am out of practice. Or because I am tired. Or because I lack inspiration.
All true.
I have to get through this, though, if I am to have any hope of finishing within a month.
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