Originally posted April 2015
Writing. It’s hard. I never think that’s the case when I’m reading. I read, and read, and read. Somewhere along the line I get the notion that I might have something to say. So I sit down with the intention of writing something, usually something specific that sparks my interest.
I sit down to write. and… nothing.
To write well, you must write regularly, repeatedly, consistently, and constantly. I hear that, and I want to write.
I sit down to write. and… nothing.
For a very long time, I’ve pictured a future time when I’ll be able to focus, to concentrate, to come up with an idea and develop it. I don’t think that future time will ever come. Years, and now decades have marched by. My reading list continues to grow. Others need my help. I must spend my energy while I can, doing what I must do in this phase of life, which is to help others.
I sit down to write. and… nothing.
Ten thousand thoughts running rambunctiously through my imagination all scatter like the wind when I decide to pluck one from the flock.
I sit down to write. and… nothing.
I read books by incredibly gifted, talented, and educated people. They make it look easy, effortless, like strolling down a leaf-strewn lane. I want to write.
I sit down to write. and… nothing.
Someday…