Writers are weird—or at least, this writer most definitely is.
I go to the library on the weekends to have a solid two hours of non-interrupted writing. I am normally joined by one or more members of my Sippy Cups and Semantics writing group. But once in a while, I end up being here by myself.
When that happens I can’t use the private room I always have reserved for us (the rules are that you have to have at least two people to be allowed to use it), so I end up in one of the cozy rooms of this amazing neighborhood library. It’s quiet and there aren’t that many people wandering around.
Today I am in the library alone. I set up just as I normally do, very anxious to go back to my WIP. You see, I am at the point in my novel where things radically change between my two MCs. It’s that moment that both the writer and the readers wait for more than half the book to get to. It’s the moment when your heart grows legs and climbs up your throat, grabs you by the neck and holds you hostage. I had started it at home and now I plan to finish it in this beautiful, sunbathed library.
Except, I can’t do it! Writing a love scene in a very public place is nerve wrecking. It’s almost as if you are the one making love right in front of everybody else. Every word you write has you looking around in all directions, paranoid, fearful of prying eyes, scared that one of the patrons may have developed telepathy.
Instead, you sit down and you write this blog to tell everyone what a weirdo you are, and wait anxiously for the time you leave this amazing place, so you can finish the beautiful, heart-wrenching scene—at least that’s how it sounds in your head—at home.
Has this ever happened to you or am I the only weird one in the world of fiction writing?