I’ll be honest. I don’t imagine myself to be any kind of genius. However, I have just enough courage and audacity to say that I believe I have some talent as a writer.
Syntax? I got that. I’ve written some damn fine sentences, a few pretty damn strong paragraphs, and even a few solid, entertaining, complete stories.
But every time I sit at the keyboard? I want brilliance to pour out. I want the prose to sing and stab, to caress and assault. I want the story to reverberate with stunning originality. I want it to capture you, twist you up, draw you in, amaze and exhaust you, leave you wanting more.
That doesn’t happen. So … I don’t write. I do nothing. I brood. I waste time Netflixing (that’s a word, right?), surfing, playing Scrabble, or (God help me) resorting to Facebook.
And yet, the truth is, that writing is the one thing that (when I do it) I am certain that it’s something I’m meant to do. Why would I keep myself from that?
So here’s the cliché: I’m going to use the arrival of the new year as my catalyst to write. To just write. With or without an audience. Because it’s something I’m supposed to do.
Here’s to the erasure of excuses. The writing is for me. I want it to reach others, touch others, of course. But it’s for me. It’s my creative calling.
If you’re finding yourself not doing the thing you love … join me in a re-commitment to it! Why not??