Deep down in the deepest darkest place where hope lives, a writer sits and waits.
I’ve always been drawn to writing. It’s the hardest and best thing I can ever do.
I set myself goals, do a Nanowrimo here and there. I struggle and strain to put the words on the page. I think about my characters, I think about who they are. I worry when I’ve left my protagonist stuck on a mountain top and I don’t know what comes next.
I think I’m not doing enough. I’m not clever enough. Not polished enough.
Recently I read a blog that said writers have to be careful not to let their blogging get in the way of their actual real writing.
And I get that. And I’ve judged myself for it. Because here I’m churning out words almost everyday. As for my WIP? Not so much.
I’ve beaten myself up over that fact. I should be writing, doing my proper writing.
Except right now, writing here creates a space. And everyday it creates more and more space in my head. Years of thoughts and worries and misconceptions about myself are making themselves known on the page in front of me. There is a silence in me, a silence that gets bigger and bigger with every word.
In silence, my true voice can finally be heard. And it is and will be the voice of my dreams.