Musings on Writing

     I first started writing at the ripe age of seven or eight. I borrowed my parent's computer and penned my first stories on a loudly clacking keyboard. Of course, I was under grand delusions that I would be the next J. K. Rowling- an idea that I still may or may not be secretly fostering- and I wrote with a fervor that, I am sure, matched hers. My first "book" was a novel aptly titled Rhotrude, named as such after the protagonist. If you are thinking something along the lines of: "What kind of a name is Rhotrude and what the heck does this novel entail?" You are not alone. I am not sure what kind of a name Rhotrude is.
     A rudimentary Google search reveals that the name is entirely made up but does, however, appear in the poems of Frederick Goddard Tuckerman. Clearly, I was not reading Tuckerman at the age of seven, so the name must have been the result of my little fingers randomly slamming on the keyboard until I found a name that suited my purposes. I do choose to believe, however, that little me somehow knew that my made up name appeared in some great author's work, clearly putting me in some excellent literary company.
     The novel involved this girl, Rhotrude, who got into some pretty crazy shenanigans with her next-door neighbor. She seemed to have no parental units to control her wild activity because who needs parents anyway? Eventually, Rhotrude married and had, like, twenty-five kids with her childhood friend. A sequel to Rhotrude's story was in the works, the story set to revolve around her eldest daughter. Sadly, I must have gotten bored with Rhotrude and her spawn, so a sequel never came to fruition.
     Ever since I drafted the original twenty pages or so of Rhotrude, I have struggled to write. I started and abandoned innumerable drafts of books, poems, and short stories. I have notebooks filled with ideas and snippets and scenes of many books. But as I've aged, I find it harder and harder to finish any form of writing- blog posts included.
     I blame this difficulty on the fact that I am a perfectionist. I find myself writing things onto a page and then spending the next two hours editing and deleting the pages I just completed until I'm left with the perfect paragraph. I can do this countless times until I grow frustrated by my lack of progress on any particular work. Writing provides me with an outlet that I have always valued, but I have yet to take full advantage of.
     Lately, I've been trying to change my relationship with writing. I yearn to revert back to the ways of my youth where words flowed freely, and I didn't worry about how it sounded or read until I was finished. To do this, I force myself to write a full draft (or complete a chapter) before I go back and edit. This helps me look at everything as a whole and edit out only the truly deplorable pieces.
     Additionally, I've stopped comparing myself to other writers. This is something that I, especially, struggle with. I fall in love with an author's particular prose and succumb to a kind of funk because I believe there is no way that I can ever be as good. Lately, I've been trying to subscribe to the notion that I have my own voice that deserves to be shared and heard, regardless of how it compares to others. Constantly measuring myself to others can only end in disappointment, so I don't know why I continue to do so.
    Writing is something that I have enjoyed. I love words and putting them together in meaningful ways. I do not like my current relationship with it, though. I am trying to fall back in love by trying new things and by simply writing. Putting words from my head onto paper is the only way I can even begin to make progress. In the wise words of Liesel Meminger from The Book Thief- "I have hated the words, and I have loved them, and I hope I have made them right."