A little too close...

A few years ago while in bed I got this idea for a book. It was not the first time I had had an idea, because as a wannabe writer, well I get them a lot. But for the first time, I was really excited about it. So much so I got up right then and there and began to write.

And write.

I had five pages within 30 minutes. It has been a work in progress ever since. I vow one of the years to finish the project I started. But with a child, a full time job a husband, and trying to finish up my Bachelors finding that time to actually write it  isn't as easy as one would like to think, or wish for that matter. Believe me if wishing would to make it so, the book would be done by now.

The story is not an unusual concept. Nor is it something that hasn't been written before. But a part of me had hoped the story would be different, someone would pick it up and think OK, this isn't bad. This is different. Enough that more than my husband would take interest in reading it, who at the moment has been the only one to even look over it. Ask him, and he will tell you that it is quite good. Which is to be expected, he is my husband and not liking something I put my heart into is surely grounds for divorce right?

I had been on a roll as of late. While it wasn't every day that I would sit down, when I did find time, at least once a week, the words were coming. I was on the path to completion. I was feeling pretty good about the whole thing. Truly I was.

And that's when it had happened. I picked up a book, and I began to read. I had read the author before, and have liked her style, her stories. And sure enough by the third chapter I was sucked in. Except wait a minute, this story sounds strangely familiar. A little to much so. I kept thinking well its ok, I mean its only one chapter. But one chapter fell into the next. And even the words are sounding the same. The thoughts I had for where I want my piece to go, was what I was reading. It was heart breaking. Because this was my idea. Sure maybe its not all the same, because it isn't. But it was still hard to take.

And whats worse. I tried to write. I tried to sit down and actual put thoughts in my head down on paper. But everything started to sound to much like this authors work. And I didn't want to be accused of anything. Which really really sucked.

As if that wasn't strange enough, the book began to sound a lot like my current life. A husband who enjoyed a sport so much they had to have talks, a sister that had been in some trouble that was trying to clean herself up. A pregnancy, bed rest..(thankfully it is not I who is) right down to a diner where she gets turkey sandwiches and homemade soup....taking place around the DC area....

Yep. Check, check and check..And check...

I was certain that this author had not only read my thoughts, but surely she must be following me around...

She should just admit it now. And until I finish the book-which should be on the commute home-I think that pen and paper.

Will remain blank...

Damn it.