I’m working on my own writing project. Like, for real working on one. For the first time. Ever.
I’m excited. And scared. And overwhelmed.
I tell you, writing for me is letting my heart bleed on the page. So to work on a project of this length feels a lot like death at times.
As I’ve pondered this idea, I come back to the question: isn’t that what we authors ought to be doing? Dying to ourselves and our preconceived ideas of what we want to say and what we hope our readers take away . . . so our words can be redeemed. And resurrected. To have eternal value.
The phrase that has been in my mind for the past couple weeks is to write with an open hand. Uncurling those fingers that grip control is hard. Just telling my story and releasing control of the meaning for someone else is hard. Letting go of shaping others’ perception of me…ugh.
Writing with an open hand also makes it sort of hard to hold a pencil or type on a computer, so I’m currently not working on my WIP until I learn how to do both.
Anyone else out there grapple with this?