Too much like work

My mother taught me to sew when I was thirteen. It was the only real handicraft she pursued, and I think she learned more out of necessity than any real desire to be creative. I loved sewing, and made doll dresses by the dozen.

In the fifty years since I first learned to wind a bobbin and sew a straight seam, I've tried a lot of different needle crafts. I'm a fairly accomplished knitter, I can crochet a mean afghan, I cross stitch, needlepoint, and yes, I still sew. When my children were little, it seems I always had a baby sweater on my needles, because they worked up fast, and even if I didn't have a use for it immediately, there was sure to be a new baby somewhere, soon, and I liked having a gift ready to go.

But as soon as someone suggested that I knit, or cross stitch, and sell the results, I balked. I like to work at my own pace, do a little or a lot, or none at all. I might put the work down for months, and then pick it up and work furiously for days.  I cross stitched seven birth samplers in a span of four years, for my six grandchildren, and for years, I never wanted to see a needle again! (yes, seven samplers for six babies. That's because baby number six, who was supposed to be a girl, turned out to be a boy. No way was I presenting him with flowers and butterflies!)

I suppose that's why I'm having such a hard time sitting down and working on my second novel. I learned a lot from the first one, about plotting and characterization and pacing. Oh, and especially about editing. You can never have too many fresh eyes reading your work, and you'd be amazed at what slips past on the first three or thirty reads. I spent hours upon frustrating hours learning how to format for uploading to Kindle, and working on a cover design, and fiddling with spacing and page breaks and font size. But seeing the finished product is so worth it, and I can't wait to do it again.

But making myself sit down and actually put words on paper, write that second book, is hard. I know, you're thinking, isn't that exactly what I'm doing NOW? Yes. But this is stream-of-consciousness writing. I have no plot to follow, no characters who must have their say. This is just me rambling, and it's not work.

And that's my problem. I don't like work. Never have, never will. If I'm going to get that second book finished, I know I need to treat writing like any other job: dedicate a set amount of time to the process, and work at it regularly. Which totally goes against the grain with me. My inner, stubborn child is rebelling against being forced to do her homework!  So, while I take a break to sit in the sun and do a little cross stitching, I'm recharging my writing batteries, reminding myself why I write in the first place.Because I love it.