Things have been really quiet around here lately. I actually, for once, have a whole list of things I want to blog about (hopefully it’ll keep things semi-regular over the next few months), but I wanted to talk about why I’ve blogged twice since November.

I’ve never really been a regular blogger, unless you count my days on livejournal in middle school (I don’t).  I also don’t feel like it’s necessary for bloggers to apologize for not sticking to a posting schedule.  I’m not going to apologize. I’ve just been struggling through some major writer’s block over the last few months, and I want – no, I need – to talk about it.

November ended on a high note. I had a very nearly completed manuscript that ignored for the first three weeks of December before printing it out and attacking it with an orange pen.

That was my first mistake.

I should have let it sit longer.  Hell, I should have actually written the ending I wanted, not the half-assed four paragraphs I wrote to get to 50k.  Every time I read back over it, I felt like I was standing on the edge of something that was very large, very dark, and growing by the second.

Eventually, I fell in.

Right around this time – in the beginning of January – I started having these terrible headaches. In the beginning, it was maybe twice a week.  Then three times. Eventually, I spent two weeks with a constant migraine that affected everything.  Eric was a saint, really, for putting up with me. I’d come home from work and head straight to bed.

I didn’t write a single word.  Every time I thought about opening Scrivener and getting back to work, I’d burst into tears. How did I even think I was capable of this? Why did I think I could tell this story the way it deserved to be told?

I’d blame it on the headache.

Finally Eric convinced me that I needed to go to the doctor.  I did. After some tests and a restricted diet to see if foods were triggering my migraines, we discovered the culprit was a mixture of two things – I had incredibly low levels of iron, and I found out that I’m lactose intolerant.  I started taking extra vitamins and cut dairy out of my diet, and the headaches disappeared.  I haven’t had a headache in nearly three weeks.

I still didn’t write more than a few words at a time.  I still had mini-panic attacks when I even thought about opening up Scrivener.  I hid my MS under a stack of wedding magazines on the bookshelf. I’d mumble “Fine,” and change the subject whenever anyone asked me how the book was doing. I avoided my blog. I avoided twitter.  I started comparing my manuscript to every book I was reading. I wasn’t funny enough, or clever enough, of poetic enough. No one, I convinced myself, would ever find my manuscript – and by extension, me – worthy. I was wasting my time, deluding myself into thinking that I could do this.

I don’t know when exactly I started to notice what was going on, but about two or three weeks ago, it hit me that I was being so incredibly stupid.

Maybe … maybe I do suck, but this is my story to tell. No one else can tell it the way that I will.  I won’t know how good it is until it’s finished and polished.  I can’t compare myself to anyone else.

What I know is this: I adore this story. I adore these characters. They’re mine.

I just have to be me. I just have to trust myself.

So I took a deep breath, found my manuscript, and opened up a new project in Scrivener.  I put everything I had from NaNoWriMo and even before into a folder labeled “draft zero” and I started outlining.  I started a pinboard with images that reminded me of the story. I plotted every scene. I made character profiles.  I made one of those story arcs that we learned about in tenth grade English and I filled in everything.  Everything was laid out in front of me. And then something amazing happened.

I saw where I went wrong. And suddenly, I knew how to fix it.

Yesterday, I rewrote my opening. Today, I wrote my last scene. There’s a lot of hard work yet to be done, but I’m not too worried. This time I have an outline to guide me when the going gets tough. It has good bones.

I silenced myself this winter, but over the past few weeks, I’ve regained some confidence.  I’ve stopped worrying about what comes next.

I’m a writer. I have a voice. And I’m going to tell my stories the best way I know how.

That’s enough for me, for now.