So here’s a thing that happens to me with writing.
If I write something awful, starting the next piece feels like wading through a muck-filled bog.
“What if it stinks of skunk cabbage like last time?” I ask myself.
If I write something wonderful, starting the next piece feels like wading though a muck-filled bog.
“It can never be as fine as the last time,” I tell myself.
If I can’t bring myself to make the slog through the bog to begin with, the next time I do try will still feel like that same slog.
I’ve learned that the only way through the writing bog is the slog.
Unless…I get the chance to write haiku and group stories on a white board with my colleagues and friends. A little slog still happens. But, honestly, it becomes something more like making mud pies.
Sure they don’t all taste good. But, for the love of rain boots, it sure was fun. Fun enough to get me to start this blog slog once more. Who knew?