I am a writer. I wrote a book. I know I did. I printed it out.

My book is sitting on my writing desk next to me. It is big and heavy. It weighs a few pounds. It weighs on me. I carry it with me everywhere I go. Not really, it’s too heavy. But I do carry it with me, inside of me. It’s there. It’s always there.

It’s there because it’s not yet finished. Yes, I did a few passes, but it needs more work. I can’t seem to get back into it, to give it the rewrite that it needs. You see, it’s not finished without the polish. What’s holding me back?

Everybody wants to write a book, right? Well, I did. I slaved away at getting 123,000 words down on paper. I wrote and wrote, and then I wrote some more. It was hard, but at the same time, it was exhilarating. I wanted to do the hard, to push myself to places I have never been before. I crawled out from under that rock I lived under for 55 years to lay down words on paper. They were my words. It was my book. It was about me. But it was raw and rough around the edges. It was a pile of words and chapters that needed to be refined and polished. Refining and polishing were not what I was good at.

After sending my book away to two very accomplished editors and receiving their feedback, I fell into a hole. They let me know that I was on the right path but had to cut it down, refine it, and make the sentences tighter. I now feel caught like a deer in the middle of a writing highway, not knowing what to do next. I am frozen. Fix this thing? What? How? Are you kidding me? It was hard enough to put all those words down on paper! Now your want me to fix it?

I have spent the last four months trying to figure out why I can’t seem to finish it? Why is rewriting such an overwhelm for me? I think it is because I am living in THE GAP. I call it a gap because it is a gap. It is the gap between my ability as a writer and what I know is good writing.

As Ira Glass, the creator of the radio show This American Life says, the problem many artists have is that we all have

good taste.

We read amazing books, essays, short stories, even watch films, then drool over the work of others and think, “Yes! That’s what I want to be. I want to be like that. I want to write like that!”

That’s the problem in a nutshell. Good writing takes time and commitment. No one thinks about how much bad writing had to happen before writer X got to the place where they could write so well. What did Gladwell say 10,000 hours? I have no time for that! I’m 56 years old. Give me a break.

Practice practice practice.

Everyday. Yes, I know.

But, still…

there’s the overwhelm.

That’s what it feels like to be in the GAP.

I began this pursuit (that’s what I am calling it only a little over two years ago. I dropped into it like a parachuter on a mission behind enemy lines. I was going to get in, take care of business, and then get the hell out of there. Become a writer? No way that would be to frickn hard. I don’t have time. I’m too old.

That’s been the story of my life, to do something fast and dirty. Just do it well enough, so it looks okay without committing to it. I rush through things. I dress them up, make them look pretty, and then shut the door and leave the crime scene.

Don’t get me wrong. I love making things. I love making art. I love playing. I draw, I doodle, I sew, I knit, I make animated films, I make other films, I make paper mache masks, and even make my own clay to mold things… sometimes.

While I wallowed in self-pity about not finishing my book, I realized how much I loved making things. Why? Because its fun! I can let myself be free to experiment and get dirty with it. I don’t let my ego get into the way. I make mistakes. The mistakes become a feature. I work with the mistakes, and I keep going until I have something I like, that’s just for me no one else.

What does that have to do with writing?

I stumbled upon a writing course on Skillshare. It was mostly about a writer’s mindset. The author Dani Shapiro said something that stuck with me. She talked about how she envies her friends, who are painters and sculptors, who have material to mold and form. But what Dani said next stuck with me:

The first draft is always a “first shitty draft,” as we all know. But that first draft becomes the material you can work with as an artist. If I thought of my first bad drafts as something I can mold and chip away at, it feels less daunting. That’s the key. I can change the whole way of looking at the book. I could erase, bend, and shape the 123,000 words into something else. I didn’t have to delete it. You know…I could have fun with it. I could “save as” on my writing software and play with the chapters. I could polish and whittle those sentences into something more pure and true to the story I wanted to tell.

And what about the GAP? Well, I am sure it will always be there. But without learning how to refine my writing and have fun with the process I will never get anywhere as a writer. My book will just sit there and haunt me forever. It’s time to get that thing off my back and have fun doing it. It will never be perfect, but that’s okay. I have to finish this book, let the paint dry, send it off into the big bad world, and move on.

It is really not worth standing still like that damn deer in the headlights and become some GAP roadkill! I guess that’s what it feels like to stick with it. Maybe this writing thing could be fun, after all.

Stuffing toilet paper in my ears doesn’t work all the time.
Sometimes the music is just too loud.
Johnny is an asshole and sucks cock.
It says it right there.
A knife to the door of the stall does the trick.
The poetic
musings of a spurned girl etched in block letters.
How long must she have been in this stinking shit hole to get those words just right?
just there, just where her bold statement gets read.
It smells like urine, vomit and strawberry flavored vape pens.

My pissing is done.
I push passed the white faced, shitfaced young ones.
I look at them, in their heals and tight skirts, full round silicon tits,
Their ruby red lips, flat tummies, and their wide open eyes.
A public spectacle
of misplaced desires to fit in.
Johnny is an asshole and sucks cock.

They don’t look at me anymore. The old ones do.
They open their
dirty mouths and let their tongues just lay their with their dirty thoughts.
I should go home.
What kind of trick will get me outta here. I’m too old for this.
Johnny is an asshole and sucks cock.