“I’ve run off in a thousand different directions and always, always, I come back to writing. And the only opposition to me seriously pursuing it, is me.”
It is remarkable how this post truly depicts the situation I am currently having. The possibility of having a great piece of writing is endless but the one hesitating is me. It is always me. I am self-driven yes but I can’t believe that would backfire me one day and apparently this is currently that day.
But because it is endless I can’t say yes to deprivation forever, I have to wake up, sip my morning H20, run the extra miles, re-red what I’ve read, write, sleep and repeat.
I believe that is called moving forward?
Over the last few years, I’ve written blog post after blog post about making changes with a mind towards writing. I quit paid work. I quit volunteering. I set up my study, surrounded by books, many of them about writing. I am supported by the people in my life. I talk about writing. I read about writing. I write about writing. On occasion, I even write things that aren’t about writing.
The only person in my life who doesn’t take me seriously as a writer is me.
The door is open wide and I look desperately out of windows, jumping at anything that is not writing. It’s an odd compulsion that I’m at a loss to explain. I read somewhere that writing is hardest for writers. This makes no sense to me. When I’m in my writing groove, I’m so damned happy. But I’m a dilettante, without rigor or…
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