So, I’m heading out the door in about 45 minutes to go to work. The 2nd load of laundry’s in the dryer, dishwasher is running, and I made my hubby’s lunch for tomorrow. I’ve made sure there’s food for them to make in the freezer, the bed is made, and I even dusted the walls in most of the house.
I had 2 1/2 hours this morning where the house was quiet and I could’ve written. Instead, I didn’t even open a file. I fell into a trap of my own making.
When I first started to write, I had hours at my disposal. Time where I could sit down and simply write. My kids were much younger, but had already reached a stage of some level of self-sufficiency.
I wrote the majority of ‘Scales & Stingers’ during quarantine for three months. I, again, had hours of time to sit at the computer and type.
I’m back to work. My hands have healed. And I’m finding that I’m giving myself excuses – not reasons – why I can’t write.
I’m so used to having these long stretches of time that I’ve trapped my mind into thinking that’s what I need to write. But it’s not. I can write for a 15 minute sprint most mornings before I go to work. It’s not going to finish a chapter, may not be more than 200 words, but it’s moving forward.
Honestly, I think that’s what a lot of what my writer’s block really is. It’s not that I don’t have ideas of where the story needs to go (I do). It’s that I think I need 3 hours to get anything down. That it’s not worth doing if I can’t spend the time.
The same thing happens after I write a scene I love. One I’m actually proud of (that’s another blog post, though). I start to doubt myself and imposter syndrome roars to life. You did one great scene…there’s no way you can top it. So why even try?
But I can. Not every scene will be perfect. Readers need the chance to catch their breath, and so do authors.
I’ve got 30 minutes before I leave for work. I’m going to go write something.