I can write in my head without a problem, but when it comes to pouring words onto paper, it's like hitting a dam. I've been crafting a story in my head, and it's surprisingly not cliche or maudlin. I like it. It flows well. But when the time comes to type it up, I am so terrified of it coming out wrong that I'll do anything to keep myself from trying.
This week: I cleaned out my closet. I took photographs of the no-longer-needed clothes that will go on eBay. I cooked dinner with Jameson. I saw Serenity. I scrubbed the floor, cleaned out the refrigerator and gave the cat a Wet-Nap bath. I painted a wall in the living room. Twice. But I did not write a word of the story.
I need to be more disciplined, but I worry that what I write won't be great, and then I'll feel like just another former English major who has a novel inside her—a very bad novel. I don't know how to become more motivated and confident. I feel stuck, but at least my house is clean.
This week: I cleaned out my closet. I took photographs of the no-longer-needed clothes that will go on eBay. I cooked dinner with Jameson. I saw Serenity. I scrubbed the floor, cleaned out the refrigerator and gave the cat a Wet-Nap bath. I painted a wall in the living room. Twice. But I did not write a word of the story.
I need to be more disciplined, but I worry that what I write won't be great, and then I'll feel like just another former English major who has a novel inside her—a very bad novel. I don't know how to become more motivated and confident. I feel stuck, but at least my house is clean.
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