I thought I had my next great idea for a novel. I was writing every day. It was going well. I had about 24 chapters written and then it all just stopped. Yes, I came down with West Nile fever right about that time and was exhausted most of the time. Feverish. Achy. Pretty darn miserable. But that shouldn’t have stopped the ideas from flowing. Right?
I think that self-doubt is the problem. I’ve never written a story in this genre before. It’s a murder mystery.
Okay, so I’ve really only published five novels. Three of them are science fiction, one is what you might call a woman’s novel and the last one is a semi-autobiographical novel with a smattering of literary license. No great shakes really, but none of them are mysteries. Unless you want to count the mystery of why I wrote them at all. No clue. So don’t ask.
So I asked myself what makes me think I can write a murder mystery. That’s me. Always asking questions. Should have left that one alone and just kept writing.
But, you know, the same could be said for the science fiction novels or even the other two novels. Then there is the other question. The one I should never, ever, never ask myself and that is … what makes me think I can write at all.
What made me think I could write science fiction was the fact that I’ve read an absolute shit-load of science fiction over the years. I know what I like about the genre and what I don’t like. Then I got to thinking about mysteries and realized, I’ve read a lot of those too. Not as many as in the science fiction genre, but enough. Or at least what I thought should be enough.
So shouldn’t I be able to write a mystery novel? And why am I not doing that right now? Like right now, this minute instead of writing this.
If I could figure out the answer to that question, I might be able to move on.