Waiting for a clear sky. . .

Writing is hard. Like really hard. For me at least. Writing a story from beginning to end, containing the proper balance of characters, development, tension and resolution; it takes a grandios vision. You must know what you want, and plot each point along the way with an iron dedication. If your attention or conviction wavers, if you lose the thought, if you change your mind, you wake to find yourself in strange waters, without compass or current or provisions. Its terrifying.

More times than I can count, I have grasped themes of powerful worth. Moments that people could frame their lives around. The ideas which I write for with the potential to inspire and transform lives. But when it comes time for execution, I get lost in the waves, I loose my heading, or a storm steals me from my route.

For four years I have worked on a single book. Over that time it has transformed from that etherial inkling I began with, to a solid work of art which everyday I try to wrap my head around. But it had grown so much now, that I cannot get my mind around my own work. My book, in a very real way has out grown me. I find myself struggling to keep up, fighting to in a real sense, to become worthy of my own art. It is frustrating, and inspiring.

When I look inside of myself I see the potential to be a great writer. Not in a prideful way. But there are clear days, when I read something I've written and it's good. Really good. Those are the moments which keep me going.

But those days are few. They are vastly outmeasured by the clouded days, the foggy days, the days I couldn't see my own hand in front of my face. I hammer through, knowing what part of the story I've generally have to finish pace wise, but unable to see whether what I'm writing is good or crap. But I struggle through knowing the horizon is somewhere, knowing I'll meet landfall or I'll crash into the shoals; either way then I'll be done.

But for now, its foggy sailing from here on. 

Journal excerpt:

People tend to hold on to the things they consider precious; rightly so. The world is often characterized by lose and destruction so it truly follows that anything we consider important we would shelter from destruction.

But with the desire to protect also comes the danger to hold too tightly to that thing. It is like holding onto an egg. Grip it too tightly to yourself and you could crush it yourself; destroying the very thing you tried to protect. Thus there must be a balance to the things we protect, diligence and vigilance with gentleness and objectivity.