A Writer’s Life: Frozen
Falling down is natural. Getting back up is another chance to run.
I want to write. I need to write. The stories are in me and they must be out of me in any way possible.
But I can’t write.
My writerly chromosomes seem to be frozen, whether in fear or confusion I can’t decide.
I do think that we, as writers, tend to struggle with perfectionistic paralysis. Not all of us, of course, but enough that I’ve seen other writers muse about it on various social medias.
We want to write our stories. We want other people to read them, and to enjoy them.
But somehow, we have convinced ourselves that for this to happen, our stories must be perfect. Not after editors. Not after review. But immediately, as they flow from our fingertips, they must come out ready to be read by others.
So, as writers, how do we get past this?
No, really. I am asking you.
Because I have not yet found the answers.
Next Monday, I will start again, on the Irish Project. Next Monday, I’m going to try and break this cycle that keeps me frozen.
It’s spring, after all.
Time for all things to thaw.
