Please indulge me – regular service will resume shortly.
I have a fear of the blank document. Starting fresh. Turning a page. I so desperately don’t want to fuck it up. It’s so crisp, so clean and my words just vomit across the page, without notion.
I am terrified of my own possibility. Terrified that I will work tirelessly on a piece of writing, only to read it back, and feel nauseated by the lack of talent and inability to embrace the form.
I write these words and I know I won’t publish them. I’ll challenge myself to, but I can’t guarantee that I’ll even follow through.
That’s my real problem,
The inability to follow through,
Finish what was started,
That manifested in an inability to even start.
I want so desperately to be inspired and to write something that the pressure is insurmountable. The weight of all my ideas pressing against my head, trying to balance them all, until they topple around me. I desperately reach out for each of them, hoping, praying, pleading for one of them to take hold and cement in my mind.
A fleeting memory.
I want to write more, so much so that I feel this ache, this need to sit and pour my thoughts out. But where to begin? What plot do I choose? What will my character look like? Do I know them well enough? Can I empathise with them? Is the world I’ve built convincing enough??
Time ticks on and my word count is stagnant.
The words are there, I’ve just forgotten how to write them.
Fear is an ugly thing.
I want to be a writer.
I’m afraid to write.