It’s no secret I am currently conspiring to write a book. Well, not simply conspiring. I’ve actually got *most* of it written. It’s just a messed up hodgepodge with almost no direction or central idea/theme/vision, is all.
Excuse me while I go throw up.
Actually, excuse me while I go procrastinate by doing literally anything other than write for my book.
*sits on edge of bed, staring off into nothing for the better part of an hour*
I’m struggling to find a central theme for my ramblings.
Not only that, I’m struggling to write solely for the purpose of someday maybe publishing my words.
I love me the instant gratification that is blogging.
Don’t even lie and say you totally weren’t shaking your head in agreement. You were. I saw you.
I write a post and, almost instantly, I’m met with feedback that feeds my soul (and that ever-present need to be validated).
It’s a really great rewards system.
“Writing” a book is the direct opposite of this.
I *have* to write and then afterwards no one rings a bell or gives me a high five or anything. It’s really disheartening.
So, I’m struggling, ya’ll.
Further, I don’t know what posts to save for my book and which to go ahead and publish on my blog.
So, not only do I have no direction whatsoever in terms of my “book”, I have no blooming idea what I should blog about.
A good example of this conundrum would be an idea I have for a travel series in honor of my upcoming trip to Amsterdam, the U.K. and Ireland.
Many moons ago, I went to the U.K. and Ireland for the first time, and it was, single-handedly, the most amazing thing to ever happen to me. Not only was it epic to experience being in another country, having the time of my life, but also, so.many random and hilarious things happened while there.
Now that I’ve gotten serious (and by gotten serious, I mean I’ve saved some Word documents with some possible already-written blog posts) about actually maybe putting a book together, I don’t know if I should include my travel stories in my book or on my blog.
And then, there’s the crippling self-doubt.
There’s always that.
I don’t want to rush-procrastinate and ruin my only future memoir. It’s not like I have a whole other secret double life that I can write about if I totally bomb telling the first life.
Would anyone notice if I tried to write it again?
Really, WTF am I even thinking?
This is the epitome of first world problems in case anyone needed a
good psychotic example for a college paper or whatever.
I’ve been anxiously awaiting the perfect time to use my favorite Andy from Parks & Rec meme. I think it fits. Every time I sit down to write, it’s like wiping a poop marker- “Still poop, still poop”.