I keep telling myself this. Heck, I’m practically tattooing the thing to my frontal lobe. But I’m still obsessing about style.
My highly anticipated jump to the mainstream (a.k.a. The Six Brothers project) is continuing to be hampered by nagging doubts on how to tell the darn thing.
I know I’ve fussed about this before, and I have claimed to have solved this dilemma many times over (all honest if fleeting proclamations). But the word “obsessing” in this case is a clinical term… as in, “Yep, I’m nuts.”
Thankfully, obsessing about writing style is a lot more productive than obsessing over how many times to flip on a light switch before entering a room (a sad but true reality that gratefully now resides in my distant past).
No matter the relative “healthiness” of this OCD variation, it still is a royal pain that continues to slow my progress on the novel to an embarrassing crawl.
I am frustration personified.
Fortunately, I am also the poster child for perseverance.
Frustration versus perseverance. There is no doubt which will win (I’m a world-class scrapper, after all), but I readily admit that I’m tiring of the fight.
Oh well. At least I look rather sexy in boxing gloves.