Erm... about that book I'm supposed to be writing

I'm having a moment of ill-thought about it all (stop that, I can hear your withering sighs, you know!). Despite having grabbed the pom-poms only very recently and encouragingly rah-rah'd someone else into an "I can do this!" book-writing frame of mind, I ummm... I'm not sure I can do this *bucktoothed grimace*

I know, I know, nothing new. This seems to happen to me every few months. But gah, I dunno, perhaps it's because I keep reading and rereading the first 40 or so pages and redrafting that section only, that I now even doubt anyone would find it remotely interesting. I look at it and think "Yeah, so, but .... who cares?!"

This is the difficulty in writing your own story, I suppose. I was virtually hounded by people close to me (as well as many more strangers imploring me to write a book - about what, I hadn't the foggiest - after reading snippets of things here and there) for a couple of years until, last May, I finally admitted I really ought to start drawing things together into a coherent, properly timelined piece of writing. After that, there were cheers ("well, about time, thank God she's finally doing it"). And I went hell for leather, the flow was easy, getting things down was a breeze.

And then I hit the brick wall and sort of stopped - I got to the part where I just found out I was pregnant with Ella - and since then, about two months now, I feel like I've been swirling in a
slow-spinning vortex, which is all that's left of my previous steam.

Just waiting, waiting, waiting, for a brick to plop out of that wall and let me peek behind it. I have to get my nerve back. I've lost it somewhere between not believing I'm remotely interesting or worthy of thinking I can do this and scared about writing what all came next. It's truly the bridge between my past and present life. And it's haaaaard!

Nobody said it'd be easy, huh.