If this were a month ago, I’d use the excuse that I was grieving the loss of my near 17-year-old dog. I’d have simultaneously said it was insane that grief could mess with your brain so much, but I’ve definitely proven that theory wrong (as anyone who’s ever grieved anything knows full well).
A week ago and I’d say I was in too much pain. (By which, I don’t just mean your routine, run-of-the-mill headache, but excruciating back pain that limited my movements to whatever hurt least—and it all hurt).
A year ago and I wouldn’t know my story well enough. Though, to be honest, I still don’t think I do.
Longer, and I’d have claimed I wasn’t a good enough writer, that I didn’t have the necessary skills. Never mind the fact that I had no idea quite how to get those skills—except the grueling act of showing up and doing the work. But who wants to do that when there are books available instead?
Today, I’m feeling like a fraud. Like the writing I did yesterday was probably a waste of time and horrible anyway, so why bother? I’ve already convinced myself I can’t do it. I’ve already seen the amount of work it will take to get this thing from idea to finished draft and I’m already exhausted.
(# Of words I wrote for my manuscript today: 309)