I’m afraid of writing.
I’m thinking I don’t have anything worthwhile to say, that I’m completely inadequate, and who am I to think I could write a book that people would want to read?
At the same time, my brain has been hijacked and my thoughts bump over each other, planning and percolating, and demanding to come out on the page.
My pen freezes over my notebook and the thought of opening a Word document makes me catch my breath. Once I add a folder called just write in this project folder under the book ideas file, then it is real. My life will be usurped and I will have to live among laundry piles and squeezed-in runs and early mornings clacking words.
And what if all of those words fall short? What if pouring my soul into this project turns out that it isn’t enough and my story doesn’t matter? What if this time the words stop coming and I realize that maybe I’m just a pretend writer after all?
These what ifs could go on for years. Yet, there is something stronger than all of those doubts and lies and worries.
So I’m rereading these words and I’m believing that writing is not a waste of time and I’m not ridiculous and I can weave words in ways that tell stories and reveal truths and touch souls.
Just write. One word and another word and stack those words each day to reach 1000 then a chapter and another and another and a book.