Writing is one of the hardest things I have ever attempted, and it’s for a number of reasons.
The first is crippling self doubt. I don’t know about you, but the sensitivity on my inner critic is set to ultra high. For an aspiring writer this is unacceptable – logical rational me knows this and should tell my inner critic to shut the hell up and stop back seat driving until I get a first draft done.
The second reason is because I procrastinate. I’ve told myself time and again that I’ll start writing someday. Sometimes months pass between sessions and this is a terrible thing because I am putting off the future – the bright one in which I write every day and enjoy what I produce. At the moment I am not even close to having a writing schedule, with work and a social life to attend to.
Third is that while I have found true joy in reading, I’ve not felt it yet in writing. Even though I’ve glimpsed it out of the corner of my eye like the shadow of a pebble thrown by my absent muse that has missed my head by millimetres. It hasn’t struck me yet and my sincere hope is that if I keep pounding away at the keyboard, the joy of writing will sneak up and bash me with one of those gigantic wooden mallets that Wile E. Coyote uses on occasion.
Only one way to find out.