I am the great procrastinator, forever putting off what needs to be done until tomorrow, and the day after, and even longer if I can get away with it.
The same happened my writing efforts. The blog was talked about for years, but the realisation proved too onerous, so was deferred. And as for the book, well I made countless attempts to write. Seriously. And found dozens of reasons not to as well. I guess the thought of committing my story to a permanent record was too much. I was afraid of how my writing would be received, how friends and family might react once I began to open up.
So far the response has been excellent. Some of the blogs I put real effort into didn’t resonate as well as I thought, while others that took me 30 minutes or so to write sparked a great reaction. That’s the fun and the pain of writing.
Mainly, though, I find digging up the past extremely painful. Some of the events have lain
dormant for so long they came as a surprise to my wife. I know my children have read a few of the blogs, which is just as well since they were the ones who pestered me to write!
Sometimes I’ll begin a draft and just leave it there. The words don’t flow at times, or the
memories are awkward, the episode just not working. I’ll leave it for days, sometimes weeks. A couple have been there almost from the start. They may never see the light of day in this blog, but will definitely turn up in the book.
I constantly need encouragement and words of praise to write. I have plenty of belief in others but when it comes to myself the reservations begin, the obstacles loom larger. I have come a long way in life, dealt with facial disfigurement as best I can and am no longer lonely. Love may not rid you of insecurities, but it does have a profoundly positive effect.
I want to write a book – I will write it – but until I sit down and start chapter one there will always be some doubt inside me that I can deliver not just the words, but also the full story.
Right now we have gutted one of the bedrooms and are turning it into an office. I plan to write the book there, starting on Monday week when I have a week off. Writing will demand organisation and structure, concepts almost alien to me – unless I put my mind to it. I know I will.
Whether I find a publisher isn’t important. It’s not about me or money, or even fame. It’s about my life, my journey with facial disfigurement, the woman and children who love me. Here’s hoping for a successful conclusion.