Wet Ink & Wicked Things

Post II: "Pop the Bubble. Write the Chapter. Or Shut the Fuck Up About It."

Let’s just be fucking honest for a second.

Most of us aren’t stuck in a World-Building Bubble because we don’t know what happens next in the story we're obsessing over. We're not frozen because we haven't had the foundations of this book ping ponging back and forth in our skulls for the last month, year... decade....

And I say "we" because row, row, row, you, bitches. I'm right there with you fucks in the same self-depricating boat.

We know that the story feels cinematic in our brains. Fluid. Sharp. Perfectly balanced between emotionally devastating and just the right amount of delightfully unhinged.

But now we’re staring at a blank Google Docs sheet with nothing but shame and a Cherry Slush Alani energy drink for comfort.

Why? Because writing our book, actual ink to fucking paper kind of writing it, makes it real. And real means vulnerability.

Gross. Right?

So instead, we go back to our world-building. Tweak the city name. Add a new underground cult. Rename the kingdom’s calendar system. Suddenly, it’s six hours later and we’ve got a whole new political system on the back burner… and still... no first chapter.

I'm just going to call us all out, here...

Rejection.

That's why we stay in our bubbles. I know that's why I'm currently staying in mine. The thought haunting us: what if we pull that trigger, write it down, and find out it’s not as good as it sounded in our head? What if we go through the time and emotional tug-of-war it takes to pour ourselves onto these pages, only for no one to like it?

And that voice... You know the one.

The voice in your head whispering, “You’ll ruin it if you start”?

What if - now, hear me out - that voice is just a gaping, lying twat waffle who doesn’t want you to realize you’re sitting on the next big fandom?

That voice wants you safe, not successful.

That voice wants you dreaming, not daring.

Tell that pearl clutching bastard to fuck allllll the way off.

Then, for the love of God. Write. Your. Fucking. Book.

Okay, now grab an Epi-Pen. This is Going to Sting.

(Just kidding. For Christ's sake. Don't do that. This is not legal or medical advice.)

The more of myself I pour into the idea of becoming an author, the more I learn. The more I feel like I might shit myself... but the more I learn. So today is the day. I'm here to be the safety pin we all (especially me) need to pop us out of our bubbles.

So here’s the part that stings a little:

If we’re not putting words on the page, we’re not writing books.

We’re curating vibes. We’re procrastinating with aesthetics. We’re building a gilded prison to keep our ideas safe from judgment. But if the idea never makes it out of our heads, it doesn’t matter how beautiful the cage is. The story still dies there.

Yes, it’s scary to write the scene and realize it’s clunkier than you imagined. But I'm finding out....sometimes kicking and screaming.... that that’s where the real work begins. The messy middle. The rough paragraphs. The awkward dialogue. That’s where the story actually forms. And it's fun!

So... here's the pep talk (That, to be fair, isn't one in the slightest).

We don’t all need another motivational quote. But I think we need to hear this:

If you’re not writing the story, stop calling it writing.

Pop the bubble.

Write the chapter.

Or shut the fuck up about it.

And if that hits a nerve?

Good. It’s probably because it’s true.

Alright, that's enough of a sermon out of me.

I'm rooting for every single one of you little bubble-hooked crackheads. You got this.

-Sam

PS - Sound off in the comments if this topic is a bus you also struggle on, or if not, why do you gotta be one of God's favorites?