I’m playing a bit of catch up right now, going back through abandoned tabs with abandoned posts. Some of them I keep, and some of them – like this one – I tear up with the delete button and try again. What once was brilliant now is just a jumble of words.
Ah, writing. I remember you. It’s been a while.
It’s a funny thing. One which inspires aphorisms about bleeding from the forehead, one that bedevils all who drive to do it well and seems to come so easily to those who see merely words like beads on a string.
I’m freshly back to it – back to keyboard after years at an espresso machine. It feels good.
You know, the same kind of feeling good as a 5 hour grappling seminar after years of being a couch potato.
It hurts, and it hurst so good.
I’m not only learning how to write again, but how not to care, how to just say “good enough,” and press the publish button. I’m learning how to talk to someone not privy to the strange echo chamber inside my skull, learning to get used to that feeling of being a little too naked in front of anyone who clicks my link, and yet, also desperately wanting them to click that button.
I knew this was what I was in for; the insecurity, the agony.
I knew before I got here that what I needed was a deadline, a push.
What we crazy minded writers need is accountability, so we just make things and stop worrying so much about the details.
The challenge: write five blogs each week, comment on other people’s blogs. It’s all community oriented and lovely.
And I’m already a little behind. But I’m playing catch up. Because I meet my deadlines.