Writing Anxiety

Sometimes it’s an empty road and you just keep driving and the landscape is there. It’s effortless and undulating and you just find the words like a path. They come from no where and everywhere easy as breathing.

The phone rings, the UPS guys delivers, the kids are yelling, the tv is on, a cat nibbles my elbow and I can still follow that path and the words just come. It’s pure magic mind flow and you can’t turn it off. Sometimes I have other obligations that prevent me from getting this to the page. There is work to be done, laundry to do, floors to clean, children that need me. Mind flow days are not interrupted by those things. I still see the words and hear the characters in my mind. I think about piecing words together all day long. I think about things I have read and how the author displayed one thing or another. I think about good points to make and how to make others feel everything. Those days are amazing with thoughts like strings of perfect pearls, one after the other, on a string. When you move one they all move and correlate to the movement. The point is there and all the other pearls are joined to it and the necklace is stunning.

Other days, other days are much much harder…

I sit at the screen and tap my fingers here or there. None of it works. None of it fits. All of the ideas are random and sorted and I am distracted by each and every noise and why is the five year old talking to me about yellow jackets? And why is she laying on the cat? And why isn’t the cat eating her? There isn’t enough coffee. This piece of writing is nothing special and maybe I’m not very good at this after all. Maybe everyone is wrong. Maybe they are just being nice. They are. They certainly are. None of this is good. Why would anyone want to read this? They aren’t. No one is. There is no point.

There is no in between.

And that sums up writing for me.

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