During the course of my vacation, I was able to write a whopping page and a half of The Book. I wrote this on the boat over to the island with intentions of adding to it later that day, but once I closed the laptop, it was only opened again to find a Dairy Queen that was close to the hotel. Apparently Buster Bar Blizzards are more important than a memoir.

I feel like I’m starting from scratch again, and it’s freaky as all get-out. I let The Cheerleader I Live With read a page of my newest creation, and although he said he liked it, he also said it didn’t flow as well as my other stuff. So, of course I cried… than I had a bath. If I’m feeling this bad about a KIND review of ONE PAGE of The Book, I’m sunk already.

I’m going to take Stephen King’s advice and not let anyone read anything until I’m finished the whole damn lot. It’ll be tough, though, because I am someone who craves approval. I *have to* know that I’m doing well at something, or else I’ll just quit for fear of making myself look like an idiot. But I’m just going to have to learn to let that go, or I’ll never get going.

I told The Pretty Epublisher Lady that the whole idea of writing The Book is “daunting”. She answered my fears with a simple, “no it’s not”. She explained that the story is already in me, I just have to let it out of me. Why does that seem so easy to do when someone else says it? I just get so easily distracted, and then give up. Maybe I need an office.

No! No, I don’t need an office. Sheesh – I convinced myself that I needed a new laptop before I started writing, and a fat lot of good that did me. I do NOT need an office! I need to quit my damn stalling and just write. If it sucks, it sucks. At least I can say that I wrote it. If it’s good, it’s good, and I’ll get to share it with others.

Christ, maybe my next chapter should be about why I’m so insecure.

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