On Writing

Writing is, at times, a frustrating thing. I wake up early. I sit. I stare at the screen, my fingers still. What the heck am I going to write about? No one cares what I have to say. That's the sabotaging voice in my head. It's imaginary but also very real.

So I stop. 

The next morning I start again and draft a decent paragraph of a novel never to be written. I'm not good at fiction, says the voice in my head today. 

Then another early morning and it all comes out. A start of a piece. I ignore the voices telling me not to bother. I down two espressos and just write. I lose myself in it. It's almost unconscious writing. My fingers flying furiously like birds pecking at bits on the ground. My digits can barely keep up with the thoughts in my brain. I'm exhausted after and I have to get ready for work which I am almost relieved to be doing. It's something I know I can do. That I'm good at. That if I prepare for, I can accomplish something more than a few pages.

Then, it's a weekend day. I open my computer and ignore the urge to write and lose myself in Gilmore Girls which I've watched straight through five times at this point. The show makes me happy. My outline of my pilot mocks me from my computer which is open on my lap. I refuse to start that mammoth of a project. 

Now it's Sunday. And I sleep. I sleep most of the day. It feels like a relief. A relief from it all. I have no urge to write today. None at all. Or at the very least, none I will acknowledge.