Oh boy do I feel this. That moment when you want to punch yourself in the face for working so painstakingly at your own self fulfilling prophecy of failure.
I walked away from writing.
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
But I ran back—characters shouting in my head and fingers itching for the keyboard.
I need to write.
Without it, I am incomplete. I am miserable.
So why am I not writing? To be fair, I’ve started flash fiction again. But I’ve stopped there.
I’m not taking a scene or idea and running with it. I’m not working on any of my novels. What’s going on?
Well, I’m busy. My health isn’t great. My to-do list is growing every day. I have deadlines, meetings, and appointments. Did I mention kids? Because. Kids. I have a lot going on in my life right now.
When it comes to writing, I always have an excuse ready. Except I call it a “reason” because I’m a word nerd and these small differences often wind up making a big difference.
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