I DON’T KNOW MY OWN STORY

Sixty-eight thousand words deep, countless characters and plotlines in (possibly several plot holes too), I found myself in the situation many writers find themselves in. I know this and yet there is a lull, a solitude in our collective woe, that even the most socialised of writers (are there many? If so, I am not one of them) cannot seem to shake. Ladies, gentlemen, both or neither, I don’t know my own story. 

Writing a novel is like… well, I don’t fully think I’m qualified to say. However, in my experience, it is a lot like playing sims. You create these people, these places, and you make all sorts of decisions about what kind of traits they have, or who you’ll make WooHoo, or who you’ll lock in a room and set on fire. You can turn your sims into stoners or astronauts or lawyers or killers. And half the time, when you’re making these decisions, you’re not entirely sure what will happen next. Now, I wish I was the kind of writer who was organised enough to know where the story should go next, but I struggle choosing a show to watch at dinner, so deciding on a plot feels entirely out of my league, and yet entirely thrilling. It’s not the worst struggle to not know where your story is going, it allows for you to think more freely and open-mindedly about the plot. But, when you’re deep into your novel and you haven’t written a god-damn word in two months because you’re having decision paralysis, it can fucking suck. 

The closer I get to the end of the book, the greater the pressure to write a good ending. Those who made it to this part of the book deserve an ending that feels just, that surprises the audience and makes them question their relationship with their mothers (that’s the goal, at least). The closer I get to the end, the more weight each word holds and I have grown fearful to write any at all. Each word is like a step closer to the edge of a cliff, each step produces that rush of adrenaline that doesn’t make you want to do a backflip as much as retreat into a ball on the floor. And now, I don’t know how to stand up again. 

I don’t know how to make a decision, but most of all, I am scared that if I don’t make a decision soon, that will be the decision itself, and I will have resigned my hopes and dreams of becoming a successful author in the name of writer’s block. How bleak, how very, very bleak. So, while I try and improve improving the book, I will no longer continue in my solitude. I am not alone, and neither are you reading this. If you, too, are in a similar predicament, I hope very soon you find your footing. 

I am going to find my footing soon (I do hope!), so for now,

Dearest,

Emily