Member-only story
Sex and spice and everything nice
Feeling my way to love
Lately, birthing a new story has been like doing the same with an actual baby. Long, laborious, impossible. Every time I think I can, I shy away. I become frozen with trepidation, overcome by a kind of foggy confusion.
The truth is, it doesn’t matter what I write. The important thing is to write.
I read an article today, an interview with a new, young Swedish writer. She said, “I fear most that I’m never going to be able to write again. You never really know. But then writing itself gives you the ability to write.”
I need to remember this. This bears repeating. I need to remember this.
Writing gives birth to writing.
One thing that’s frozen me lately is something I read on Medium about how no one wants to read our journal entries. Our pieces should be polished. We should know what we want to say and deliver it nicely wrapped in service to that goal.
What if the writing I’m attracted to IS the meandering type, where the writer seems to be feeling his or her way along? Writing to discover?
One of my problems is that I seem to have everything and nothing to write about, at once.
