Confessions #4: I Have Writer's Dysfunction

Confessions of an Insomniac Book Devourer #4

It is a truth I have been avoiding for quite some time. I have a severe case of... Writer's Dysfunction.

Have you ever met a person who says they're writing a book one week, and the next week you ask about it, and they say they aren't anymore? That's pretty normal for me to hear about, as I always tell people I'm writing a book, and they feel compelled to share, even if they haven't had much luck writing. Then they ask me how long I've been writing mine.

I tell them the truth, I've been wrestling with the same darn book since I was 12, so basically for ten years.

*chirp* *chirp* *chirp*

They then back away slowly, an expression of abject horror marring their countenance. I beg the Earth to swallow me whole as they begin their questions. What's it about? Why haven't you finished it yet? Why on Earth haven't you cut your losses and given up? I calmly explain I have a headache, and lope gracefully away from the awkward situation.

I've been avoiding conversations like that practically all my life, when you consider they started when I was twelve. When I was set up with a guy to go to a formal dance in high school with, someone chose to tell him about it. I was very angry with that someone. He was interested in the same polite queries everyone else was, and I was forced to answer them.

I began the book at twelve, and it is epic fantasy. It is about a girl trying to navigate a world that not even she  fully understands, your basic save the world story. Yes, it is part of a series, and I haven't decided just how many books it will be. Indeed, it is crazy that I haven't stopped yet. But "Don't Stop Me Now", because I'm having a good time writing it. Have I approached any publishers or agents? No, I'm not nearly done. When will I be done? Maybe next week. Maybe next month. Maybe next year. Maybe next decade. Perhaps even the next century, if I'm lucky.

(Yes, another Queen song. They're just so darn catchy.)

The thing is, I can't quit. I'm entrenched in a world populated by different beings, different cultures, different languages. I dream about it every night. I live it every time I type a lovely line, witty banter, or a misstep that alters the course of my characters' collective fates. They are my people, and I can't leave them alone, no matter how much they want me to cease the slaughter (joking, I seldom kill protagonists).

So I may have Writer's Dysfunction. I enjoy this disease, unlike the others I'm said to have. We coexist quite peaceably, as long as I have a pen and a notebook on my person, at all times. Inspiration is known to strike me while I'm walking my dogs, brushing my hair, or people-watching in the car. The ideas are known to fly straight out of my head thirty seconds later, leaving no trace of what they might have been, leaving me to worry if I have some form of Writer's Dementia.

A visual feast of my work, thus far:

Topmost copy is the most recent, and thinnest at a mere 170ish pages.

Roughly ten years of work, appr. 1300+ pages, plus my snazzy chair.

A version from when I was 13-14. Not using that title anymore.

In conclusion to my confession, I must say it is a time-consuming hobby to be a writer of books. I've spent hours brainstorming my world into reality, agonizing over the placement of a comma, and dreading the demise of a beloved character who simply must be killed off. I would not wish this Dysfunction on anyone, but if you simply must become an author, there is something you need to know. Perfectionism and writing books rarely mix well. I would know, as I'm guilty on both counts.