I have been stopped, lately. I’m writing in my journal and my blog, but not my novel. I’m just stopped. I wouldn’t call it blocked, exactly—that’s not a nice word, it’s almost like not writing becomes an illness, and I don’t need an “illness” as an excuse for not writing.
Honestly, I think I’ve been stopped in my writing because I am too close to making it real. I was fine with writing when I was just planning. Taking notes, asking questions, doing character sketches… all that was going along fine. It came to a screeching halt as soon as I got to the point of actually starting to write the STORY.
So, face it. Face my reluctance.
You have no idea where my head just went. Suddenly, Oprah was riveting. I thought I heard Gabriel stirring. I looked at my studio and started planning how to baby proof it. I noticed my lips were chapped. I started thinking about a class I took years ago. I noticed that my clothes smell like baby puke and I should probably go do something about it—
All to get away from writing—and thinking about removing the blocks to writing.
The truth is, I shouldn’t even expend this energy on thinking about why I can’t write and what is getting in my way. I should just go write.
First one word, then the next, then the next, until it makes a sentence. Then add another sentence, another, another—that’s how writing happens. That’s how stories get written.