You know those magical moments when you sit down at the computer with a perfect picture of what you want to write clear in your mind? The way your words flow, crisp and pristine, exactly the way you want them to?
Yeah, that’s not where I’m at. Writing this month has been painful and slow, and every day I have to tell myself not to reread what I’ve written so I can’t delete it all. There are a couple of factors influencing my slump, I’m sure, but I think the strongest one is also the simplest.
I’ve been writing since I was a child, but lately it’s felt different. When I was younger, there was no fear. I didn’t care if my words were good or not. I didn’t care if anyone would like what I wrote. I just wrote, because the words were in me and I had needed to get them out.
The words are still in me, but I’m strangling them before they find the page. I’ve done so much editing and revision the last three months that I find fault in every sentence I write, and I’ve started to wonder if any of it is worth preserving.
But it is. Terrifying and heartbreaking as each new rejection is, there is no other option but to keep going. In my heart I know this story is important, and worth the struggle it will take to be born. Someone out there needs this story. Maybe it’s just me.
Maybe that’s enough.