Bianca_Sommerland
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Aug 20, 2009
- Posts
- 1,198
I've been thinking about it, a lot. It's really not fair, but I just can't seem to help it.
I started when I was fifteen. Snuck around in class and worked on it. Life happened and it got put away for years.
About two years ago I took it out again, rewrote the whole thing, and continued. Two years of ceaseless, tireless work while this brain child of mine raged within, demanding to be set free. It was my obsession.
Seven books later I finally stopped, went back to the first book and told myself I must work on getting my baby out to others. I researched, I rewrote. I cut and bled my darling until I thought she was ready. I was prepared to have to wait months, years even, for my baby to find a home. Which was fine. Nothing was going to make me give up.
I had worked a little on book eight but forced myself to stop. Until book one was out working that far ahead in the series wasn't productive. So I did some work on book two. But now I was getting restless. What had happened to the need to write? Where was my drive? All I was doing was detail work...I wanted to build!
Much more research and I set myself a new goal. I wouldn't wait on my precious to break in. I would attack the steel doors of publishing from as many different angles as I could. Never give up. Never say die!
Noble cause. The only problem was, the fire wasn't quite so bright anymore. There was no raging blaze rage, no obsession.
Some of the stories woke me up a little, but the pull to bring them life was pale compared to the scalding rush giving birth to my favorite had brought. The characters were good, but I didn't love them, my love was fixed with the deep, compelling individuals in the First. The action didn't quite measure up, the love was tepid, the trials paltry.
I am a writer. I have to write. It's like breathing. But right now I feel like I left the mountains, am denied the fresh, crisp air that filled me for so long, and am forced to manage with city smog.
So have you got a fav?
I started when I was fifteen. Snuck around in class and worked on it. Life happened and it got put away for years.
About two years ago I took it out again, rewrote the whole thing, and continued. Two years of ceaseless, tireless work while this brain child of mine raged within, demanding to be set free. It was my obsession.
Seven books later I finally stopped, went back to the first book and told myself I must work on getting my baby out to others. I researched, I rewrote. I cut and bled my darling until I thought she was ready. I was prepared to have to wait months, years even, for my baby to find a home. Which was fine. Nothing was going to make me give up.
I had worked a little on book eight but forced myself to stop. Until book one was out working that far ahead in the series wasn't productive. So I did some work on book two. But now I was getting restless. What had happened to the need to write? Where was my drive? All I was doing was detail work...I wanted to build!
Much more research and I set myself a new goal. I wouldn't wait on my precious to break in. I would attack the steel doors of publishing from as many different angles as I could. Never give up. Never say die!
Noble cause. The only problem was, the fire wasn't quite so bright anymore. There was no raging blaze rage, no obsession.
Some of the stories woke me up a little, but the pull to bring them life was pale compared to the scalding rush giving birth to my favorite had brought. The characters were good, but I didn't love them, my love was fixed with the deep, compelling individuals in the First. The action didn't quite measure up, the love was tepid, the trials paltry.
I am a writer. I have to write. It's like breathing. But right now I feel like I left the mountains, am denied the fresh, crisp air that filled me for so long, and am forced to manage with city smog.
So have you got a fav?