The words come slowly, but they are there. Each morning for the past two weeks, I sit and struggle over my latest story. It’s a bit unnerving as I don’t know what is going to come next. I literally have no idea until I sit down and type. It’s hard not to keep saying “it sucks” or “this doesn’t make sense” or worse “you don’t know what they you are doing.” But I keep going. At first, the words came slowly, each time I sat there my hands paused over the keyboard with nothing to say except think that I am not a writer, but then slowly the words came out. They weren’t perfect, and I hated most of them, but I kept going. That’s the thing about writing, there is a lot of crap that has come out. Think of it as a mental flushing that has to occur so the shit go can go away and the real gems can come out (pun intended).
More important is just making the words automatic, the habit part of who I am. It is the one thing that I regret. I don’t write enough. I make so many excuses but ultimately it comes down to fear. I get to be automatic so the words can too.