Facing my wreckage

It seems like whenever I have time to write, I find that there are so many other really important things to do, like organizing the silverware drawer or scrubbing out the diaper bin. Ah, procrastination. I remember in college, my room or apartment would get a good one-over if I had a paper I should have been be working on.

Anyway, I'm feeling a bit blue because January is half over and I haven't done any actual writing on the book. There have been lots of blog posts, reading, but nothing on the book. Actually, that's not totally true. I have done some organizing of ideas and some editing here and there, but just not actual writing. It's hard to sit down to write because it's just such deeply personal stuff that focuses on really tough times over the past couple of years. I know I haven't really disclosed what my book is about, but let's just say it is a non-fiction book that pulls from personal experience.

As a result, this writing process sort of reminds me of picking up a nasty piece of old wood you come across when you're hiking in a damp forest. You're intrigued to see what's under there because there is always funky stuff under and old wet log, but it's often a bit disturbing to see the worms and fungus and centipedes and other grubby creatures that live under there. Some of it isn't pretty and it can make people turn away in disgust--just like the stuff hibernating in my brain.

I know I'm excited to write this book. It's a huge relief to have identified the topic and format for my book. But then there is the actual writing part, the part that involves thinking and working and pulling those emotions from my brain--those emotions and feelings I've so desperately tried to get away from--to the forefront. It's scary to go in and find out what is really in there.