Writings a bitch

I was poking around on Writers Digest today and there was a writing prompt.
The question was asking when you sit infront of your computer, does it speak to you?
This is what I wrote, and a blog was born.
I will be using this blog to work out my issues. Should be pretty funny.

This is my computer. It is small, maybe eight inches, by six. It has a full keyboard and is connected wirelessly to the internet. It is a baby when paired with my writing partners monster. We look like the odd couple when we meet at Starbucks.
My computer never speaks to me. It mocks me. Bastard.
I use the internet for information and to give my brain wandering time. Otherwise its soul purpose in my life is to keep the thoughts that I store in my head a place to live.
Every day I write. I write a lot, I write a little. Sometimes I leave it more frustrated, other times I am so self satisfied that I have to do a little dance.
When I sit before my computer and I am staring at the story before me it starts to taunt me.
Why did you write that? That was dumb. it says. I could write a better story than you.Son of a bitch. I’d love to throw it out the window some days.
I contain so much information, use me. But you don’t. you trap yourself in your little brain only limited to the universe you set yourself up in.
You write the world inside your head, it could be anything. It could go anywhere. You are the master of this domain and yet you fail to use it.See? Dick, right?
The worst part is I know its true. I know that the possibilities are endless for my characters and my story could be great, but instead of being the best book ever written it is trap and bound to my brain.
Every day I write, that haunts the back of my head. this could be better. Why aren’t you making it better? Stupid girl. So what do I do now?
Keep writing.I keep writing, and deleting and writing. I gnaw and chew, and mull everything. I question everything. Is this right? Is it perfect? Can it be better? Should I make it better?
Maybe I shouldn’t touch it at all.
Some days the vision I have for my novel is clear. I know exactly what is said, done and undone. Some days it is murky, swampy. I don’t know what I am doing.
Besides a few high school classes I have never had any formal training. I don’t know everything. I don’t know enough.
What is worse. I chose to write a love story. Not a romance novel. It is much more complicated than that.
The characters are complicated, and diverse. They all have secrets and problems and shame.
But that’s not the worse.
I am not a romantic person. I don’t pine for a lover to take me to a bed of roses. I don’t long for devotion, lavished attention and gold upon my body.
I am a simple girl. I wear who I am on my sleeve and I am not ashamed of me. I can be crude, crass and rude. I know that.
But I am also understanding, compassionate and patient.
I don’t stick to the traditional rules of relationships.
The only thing I require from the man that I love is his presence. We go from there pretty nicely.
Well, not all the time. Both of us are strong, stubborn, and can be real asses. But I love him and I know he loves me.
We talk about stuff that most couples wont touch with a ten foot pole. We have conversations that men wont have with their wives.
I am comfortable with basic feelings. Love, anger, sex and whatever.
I am not comfortable with deep down longing for someone unobtainable.
I am not comfortable with loving from afar, or pining.
I am not comfortable with romance.
But here I am writing a story with all of those emotions that I struggle to define.
This story has been in my head since I was in high school and very few things have stayed the same.
I have written this story a thousand times.
The original story was centered around a woman and how she got to where she is. But that story wasn’t interesting.
What was interesting was the two sub characters that I began to write.
It’s the basic boy meets girl. They fall in love. And that is where basic ends.
Boy meets girl falls in love and the shit starts to fall around them.
She learns his secrets, horrible secrets. Secrets that should make her run screaming from him, never to return again. Instead girl loves boy and stays with him helping him on his journey back to life.
It’s a good story, it’s a great story.
So why cant I write it?
My vocabulary sucks. My writing is basic. My feelings are muddled and awkward. And I spend countless hours thinking and thinking and thinking about a book that I want to publish so that the world can see what I cant.
So how do I fix it?
I have started paying attention to the books that I am reading. Is the writing good? Is the story good? What would make it better? How would I write it?
I started paying attention to action, and vocabulary. Seeing how other writers use them to serve their purposes.
I start to see how they use their magnificent brain to write a creative story and spellbind those who choose to read it.
Does it help?
Yes for the most part. I feel that my writing has significantly improved over the last year.
But why isn’t my book better?
I am trapping myself. I know it. I feel so restrained by my book and setting parameters.
Why do I need to do that? Set parameters.
I have no idea. My mind is vast and never ending. I can be extremely creative, but usually its dirty. I have a very dirty mind.
Is that a problem? No, not really. I enjoy that I am comfortable with a natural part of life. Sex. It’s natural. Its healthy. No one wants to talk about sex and when they do its with innuendo to avoid having to say sex, penis and vagina out loud or its extremely scientific and there is no fun about scientific sex.
So where is the problem?
It’s a young adult novel. My kind of mind really shouldn’t be writing a young adult novel.
Don’t get me wrong. I have a zombie book that I am working on that I have no restrictions. It’s me in a book. Ha! Bet there will be book burnings for that one. God I hope that there are.
My zombie book isn’t where my heart lies.
Isn’t that ironic?
I have a hard time writing a book that has become so ingrained that it is a part of me, yet it is everything I have a difficult time with.
My zombie book flows out of me as if I am puking it up.
The other one, chokes me.
The book about boy meets girl is yet to be titled. Another problem for a later moment.
The characters are real to me. I know them better than I know myself. I know their pain, their heart ach, their struggles, and their joy.
I know why they do what they do, I know why they make the decisions they do.
Another question. What do I do about all of this?
How do I solve my problem?
I don’t know. I really don’t.
I don’t know how dark to take my book, cause I want it to be dark and passionate.
But I don’t want Fabio to grace my cover.
I don’t want it to be cheesy or lacking in the development in the characters.
That was my biggest joy with Harry Potter and my biggest irk with Twilight.
Harry develops, he changes, he becomes the man he needs to be to save those he loves.
Bella doesn’t do a damn thing. She lets her lover fight for her and she doesn’t stand for herself. Even in the end when she ‘fights’ she doesn’t really.
I want my characters to grow. Evolve. Change. I want my readers to read my book, finish it, go back read it again and see the progression.
The title.
I have no title for my book. I think that the title sets the right tone and expectation for the reader. The reader reads the title and opens the book expecting the content owns up to the cover.
I have probably six or so pages of potential titles. Some are close I think, others are just pathetic. My poor writing buddy has been sent dozens of potential titles and she accepts them, telling me what she thinks.
Bless her. No really. If anyone needs to be blessed it’s her. She puts up with me. We meet as often as we can and have become dependent on each other for honest opinion. And I love making her blush, it’s hilarious. It’s adorable when her cheeks turn pink and she holds her fingers to her nose and I know I hit the mark.
I digress. a lot. But back to the title. If and when I ever set a title for my novel it might free some boundary and open the flood gates.
How do I do that when I am not confident in my story?
I don’t know.
New favorite phrase. I don’t know.
　
I have written, read, rewritten and drowned in it.
I have gone back and reread this rant a few times and I am impressed with myself. It’s pretty good. Actually it’s really good. It’s the kind of writing that I am good at, me.
Am I stroking my ego a little? Yeah. Can you hear it purr?
I guess in the end I just keep writing. Writing is a bitch.