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I& #39;m writing again after a long time of just not being able to. I have been yearning to have something to write - something good, something worth it. I& #39;ve had ideas but no stories. I lost them.
I think I was yearning to write, not because I loved writing anymore, but because I felt I had to prove I could keep doing it. I wanted to impress and wow and yet I couldn& #39;t think about writing without talking myself out of it.
I don& #39;t know how to express this, but I have fought with a strange revulsion when I look at my books. Real shame that they were not as good as I wanted them to be. Embarrassment that people could look and see and know the mess.
This is NOT a & #39;please tell me I& #39;m great& #39; tweet - it& #39;s just saying how I& #39;ve felt. Because writing three books quickly wrung me dry. I realise now that (for many reasons) I am fairly slow. I think I& #39;ve only just caught up with myself.
I would intend to write, because oh my gosh career and momentum and money and and and... but then I would sink into utter misery at the thought of holding out a secret precious thing to the world again.
And I would think & #39;I need a thicker skin& #39;. But that& #39;s not true. I need to be tender and thoughtful and feeling and bruisable because the stories live in that part of me.
And maybe I won& #39;t & #39;keep up& #39; - maybe I& #39;m not cut out for & #39;the industry& #39; but I am cut out for stories. So, I& #39;m going to quietly write. I& #39;m going to write the tender, odd stuff and it might not work and it might not impress and it might not make me money. But it might make me proud.
