Writing is hard.

It’s the kind of work that’s easy to avoid.  There’s no boss to answer to, not even co-workers for encouragement, competition or inspiration.  Just you staring at a sheet of paper or a screen.  Just you and the painful prospect of blankness.

When you get up in the morning there are so many more real things to do than facing the blankness with its threat of failure and exposure.  Easier to keep moving, whether to a job, appointments to keep, car repairs, housework, weeds in the garden, diapers to change, calls to return, emails to answer.  But the thing is – you really want to write.  You need to.  You don’t tell anyone, but you know you’re a writer.  You have the agitated soul of a writer with all its unrest and deep inexplicable yearning.  But, you put it off.  Easier to think about, easier to daydream about your story, your characters, your first bookstore appearance and the crush of readers clamoring for your signature on the book they’ve just bought – your book.

But you’re never really content, are you?  There’s always that nagging inner voice demanding to know why you aren’t doing it, getting to the desk, opening the pad, striking the key, writing something.  Anything.  The first word.  And then the next – no matter how awful it seems, but you’re doing it.  And after a while the writing comes easier.  And, by God, nothing feels better.  Nothing makes you happier than being there – in that safe other place, in the story only you can tell about people you want the world to finally know and understand because they need to be set free.

And so do you.

 

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