I have the writer’s nemesis: writer’s block. It’s why I have several half-finished stories.
This is a big part of my shame, the parts of me I wish I could surgically remove and join the doer world.
Books, articles, videos, podcasts, psychiatrists have been consulted – and I still procrastinate.
The controlling editor in my head won’t let me write a sentence in peace – there’s no ‘getting it out and edit later’ for me.
But writing calls to me anyway.
Writing is this beautiful, unhampered soul just waiting for me to get over myself and create. Why does that terrify me?
It’s a rhetorical question. I know the answer, or at least I’ve been given several explanations from the above list of resources – especially the psych docs.
Information is power, sure, and I’m writing now because this is a chunk. This isn’t fraught like finishing a story is.
It’s important that I write – even if it’s never published – even if no one likes it.
I’m writing because it’s what I must do. I just know, or believe, I can be and do better.
Living up to my potential is what life’s waiting for me to do, and I’m only a chronic disappointment to myself, and probably my mother, and possibly my family and everyone who knows me.
Except that’s part of the big lie the boogeyman in my head blocks me with. I give my energy, witting or unwitting, to fear. The unwitting I can do nothing about, but the part of me that knows has to step in and, gently (for me anyway), take pen in hand – or keyboard – and begin.
Maybe I’ll be found a failure and a fraud, but how can I fail any worse than I already have by never following through?
© seekingsearchingmeaning (aka Hermionejh) and Abstractly Distracted’s Blog, 2010 – current