I sort of psyched myself out.
It happens. The words and I were getting along too well and I had so much other going on in my life that we took a wee break from each other. No big deal, right? Only, I let the break go on too long and the doubts started to creep in. And then I started getting that sinking discouraged feeling. And then there was a spiral of bad and I couldn’t seem to sort anything out, let alone get any words on the page. I couldn’t even put together a cohernt thought for a blog post. For a few minutes there, I was certain I was doomed for Titanic proportion disaster.
But eventually, I snapped out of it, said, “fuck that noise,” pulled up my big girl panties, and put some words on the page anyway.
It’s probably not gold. In fact, it may just need a lot of work. But that’s okay. Because the words are going on the page and I have a new story and a new goal in mind. And maybe, just maybe, that’s exactly what I needed to get out of my writing funk.
I have a billion and nine stories in my brain. Some of the are worth the telling. And finally, again, I’m attempting to tell them.