Writing Constipation

I suppose I could have come up with a better title, but I went with whatever came out first.

I have writing constipation. They should make a stool softener for that. The writing constipation has been this way for awhile. It all started with sending my book out "wide" (and by "wide" I mean 8 or so people).

After completing the first 52 Mondays, I thought maybe there might be an opportunity to turn it into a book.  I thought maybe it would be one of those books you pick up at the airport that would be light reading.  Perhaps it would speak to the working woman.  Or working mother.  Or someone who has a challenging job.  Or just someone in transition in their life.  Or maybe just someone who was having a bad Monday.  

So I have spent the last 3 months trying to convert this journal into a book. I got a lot of notes back. I wanted a lot of notes.

Careful what you wish for.

Now I can't open the book to do a rewrite. Every word, every page represents what is wrong. Nothing is right. Well the cover is right, because it is a beautiful piece of artwork which someone else did. (Thank you, Sujean!)

So at least I like the cover.

But even the title seems no longer appropriate. It was 52 Mondays, which was intended to be a real time journal. A journal in an attempt to manage my sanity during the final weeks of my corporate life. But none of that happened.

My final year of corporate life came to a screeching halt just three months after I began writing. Followed by weeks of uncertainty as I transitioned into a new career and a series of moves. Not metaphoric moves. Actual moves. The packing up of offices. The packing up of homes. The moving of homes. (Three homes over the course of six months.) As for my sanity, I didn't manage that well either. Different job, different career, different home, different location... same neuroses.

A year and a half later, I "finished" the book, but it now needs a rewrite. An overhaul. But I am stuck. Which means I need a tow truck or the writer's version of AAA to help rescue it... or maybe to rescue me.

Now the book has become the embodiment of my self-doubt. The book was supposed to help me figure out who I was? What I wanted to be? What I wanted to do? The book taught me how to write. The book taught me about patterns of thinking. It led me to meditation. It showed me how much I love writing and collaborating.

But then the music (or my muse-ic) stopped. I don't have a book. I have a collection of journal entries with some old stories conjured up by those journal entries.

I no longer hate Mondays. But that has so much less to do with writing the book, than just leaving corporate life.

But I am full of doubt. Writing the book was the most fun I have had in years. I felt like it was a culmination of all the work I had done professionally and emotionally. I felt like I had completed something that I had set out to do.

But when the feedback came back and some people couldn't relate. Or that it was a little schizophrenic. Or that it lacked a cohesive arc. Or that it felt unsatisfying in the end. Or that it felt privileged (that's the hardest note to hear). I couldn't recover.

I was talking to my sister (who has been a big inspiration in my writing) and she said, "Why don't you turn this into a blog?"  

I thought that was a great idea.  Except for a couple of things:  I have no experience writing a blog. I have no experience reading blogs.  I am slightly computer illiterate (except for my prolific email writing).  

I like the idea of having a blog, so that I would keep writing.  I just want to make sure I am doing the "right thing?" Part of me is really excited and part of me wonders if I am undermining my dream of publishing a book.  Are they mutually exclusive?

To Blog or Not to Blog?  That is the question.