Writer’s Remorse

I’m at this stage again where I am not writing. I’m thinking about it, but I am not typing anything. I read about other writers, good and bad and get jealous. Jealous that I am not as successful as they are, jealous that they are getting press and I’m not.
So jealous, so riled up, it’s almost enough to make me sit down with my manuscript that is not so terribly far from finished and well just polish the damn thing and fill in the missing scenes and complete it once and for all.

But then the phone rings. The kids come home. An email message beeps. Another responsibility/ diversion takes over and I do not open the file.

A friend of mine had taken an acting class around the time the Blair Witch Project came out. “I could do that,” was the sentiment every actor had said. And the teacher replied, “Yes and the only difference is they did it.” And I’m not doing it.

I look back with regret about the amount of time and opportunity I had to write more and I did not. Because the phone rang. The dog needed to be walked. An email message beeped. Another responsibility/ diversion took over.

I have a 101 ideas. I have a 1001 ideas. I need help executing. Entire buildings have been constructed in the time it is taking me to complete a novel, and not even something that aspires to be a literary masterpiece.

I’ve run marathons. I’ve given birth two times, once to a nine and a half pound baby. I’ve bought and sold real estate, begun and settled lawsuits, filed estate tax returns, renovated apartments, leased spaces, fostered amazing friendships, stopped talking to friends I considered family, taken writing courses, remained quasi-current on my photo albums but I have not finished my novel.

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