I sat down this morning to write and this nagging voice whispered to me Why bother? I pushed it away and picked up my pen. I started journalling. I asked myself why is it I am so compelled to write and why do I make it so hard for myself to achieve the one thing that I love. I pondered the question for a while and came to the conclusion that I love to write because I love the feeling of having written. And this conclusion gave me the permission I needed to get on with the draft – to write and allow whatever to hit the page because I can always clean it up later. And that’s a whole lot better than having nothing there at all.
The whole writing thing speaks to me of discipline, creativity, and the possibility of laying down words that may move someone on some deeper level. I don’t know why I think it is so hard to sit and write. I can belt out a stream of consciousness garbled random word vomit with not an ounce of trouble. It is cathartic. There is no one to judge it – not even me because once it is out, it need never be referenced again. But when I am working on my novel, suddenly the rules change. I get antsy and nervous and feel like a fraud- like nothing I write will ever be good enough. Today, I just pushed through my monkey mind. I kept going, writing word after word – like a journal entry – not judging, just letting it hit the page and settle. I spat out 2000 words. I love the feeling of having written. That’s why I bother. Because at the end of the day – I love to write.