The Backlist

I looked at my hard drive the other day and saw a list of novels/stories I never completed. They are all crying out for completion. They're like children summoned to the dinner table and then left unfed. Or worse, babies I became pregnant with and never fully birthed. It's a terrible feeling. The worse part is that the story ideas keep coming and coming. I would so love to lock myself in a room with my laptop and go through the list. Just start with one of the stories and work my way through. Finishing them, one by one, delivering them whole, even if raw, one by one. That's my wish.

I wish I had the financial resources to stay in a cabin -- or a hotel -- where I had minimal housekeeping worries -- and just take care of this. It sounds like a wonderful fantasy, doesn't it? But in reality, it's one of the most frightening things a writer can do -- lock herself away from distraction -- lock herself in with the blank page and a list of ideas, novels, short stories that need fruition. It's terrifying when you've intentionally left yourself no place to hide. But I would so appreciate the opportunity to do that. To write what I want to write irrespective of how successful it might be. Part of the reason I stumbled with every story was that inner voice, the mean-spirited inner editor that taunted me, that said with increasing ferocity, "It's not good enough. No one will be interested. No one will be interested. Who will care?" That voice wore me down. The only way to counter it, I think, is to say: "I care. I'm writing it without expectation."

Maybe, if I could get through the "backlist," I would feel free. Maybe these stories were never meant to be published -- they were just mean to make me strong. Think about that ...