Skipping stones

It’s been several years since I’ve started outlining my current project. I’ve sat down and written, edited, deleted, rewrote, edited, put aside, restarted, rinse repeat. Every time I read a book I would either think about how I can do this or how I can never be good enough (depending on the type and quality of book). That kind of doubt has always loomed over me and I think most writers go through it.

There are so many different types of writers. There are those like Juliet Marillier, whose prosaic writing is so beautiful it’s almost lyrical. There’s Stephen King, who can put away hundreds of thousands of words behind him to make sure every nook and cranny of his tale has been told. There’s Lois Lowry, who can use the minimal descriptions to tell the biggest stories. These writers are so different and yet so similar.

So who am I? Who are you? Do you compare yourself or do you hope your style is unique, not just bad writing. What is bad writing, really? When I asked this question in a community, the answers were mostly “it tells not shows” and “lack of editing”. Does that mean any writing can be good writing with the proper guidance?

I named this post skipping stones because I feel like writing itself is made from just that. A thought, a stone, is cast out into the waters of inspiration. It skips, bouncing off, creating ripples. In the end, it becomes a part of the waters. Forgotten? Maybe. Maybe not.

I’m at a point where all the ripples have been made and the story I have to tell has already been told in my mind hundreds of times. I live it and relive it, and once it’s down on paper it feels like that part has become real. I watch the scenes happen, the emotions of my characters bringing goosebumps to my skin.

Except those parts that I skip. The parts that have to be written, that tie the story together, but go in the “I’ll get it when I get to it” pile. The completion of those parts makes the aftermath that much sweeter.

Part 1 of 2 was finished three days ago and I haven’t touched it since as to not break it, like it’s made of glass. Almost 40 thousand words down and I can’t bring myself to open the file. Maybe tomorrow.

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