After more than five weeks, I finally wrote today.
Between moving across the country and starting a new job, I have recently found myself with absolutely no time to write – and no real interest in it. Until tonight. Before now, I was just too tired.
Sure, there were moments when I wistfully thought about my WIP, or jotted down new story ideas, but most of me was consumed with unpacking and work. Every now and then, though, I’d get frustrated. How was I going to be a best-selling author by 30 if I didn’t make time to write? When was I going to stop making excuses and just do it?
These thoughts weren’t helpful. If anything, they just made me feel worse about being too preoccupied to write.
I used to sit down to work and just churn with resentment that I’d missed so many planned writing sessions and despairing that I’d ever finish anything again. Sometimes I felt guilty for taking time for myself. None of that was helping.
So I ended up having to accept that I would deal with starts and stops. I also knew that once the story was done, I’d spend extra time going through it to make sure it flowed as a whole.
Brilliant! I thought.
So, I let go of my internal critic who assumed I was doomed to failure if I didn’t get x number of words written a week and just decided to write when I was able. And tonight, I turned off the tv, sat down at my computer, dusted off my WIP, and got to work.
And, darn it all, it felt good.