… I’m supposed to be a writer. All my life, pretty much (well at least since I read “A Wrinkle In Time” when I was eight years old) I have wanted to be a writer. And I even wrote. More than that I even sold stuff and got published. Just a few short stories and articles, but it was something.
So why is it so incredibly difficult to make myself sit down and write? Every time I think about it I start to panic. The panic spreads into the rest of my life. Thus in my spare time when I should be writing I find myself sleeping; making cups of tea; reading other people’s writing; watching TV and films online. Or just sitting paralysed and sick with nerves. I even start worrying about the things I have to do before I can get some free time to start writing.
Now I’ve written myself into a corner because I finished the last post on a cliffhanger waiting for my husband to arrive. So good practice would be to carry on from there. Detail what happened and give some back story. But actually I feel like writing about other things now.
So I think the only way to escape from this corner is just to publish this post. As it is. And then simply carry on writing what I feel like when I feel like it. Otherwise I will never write at all.