There, I said it. I admit it.
I feel like I’m at an AA meeting: Hi, my name is Kris, and I haven’t written anything in almost two weeks. I’m a failure as a writer.
I know what stops me. I’ve been bouncing between three projects. All of them are interesting. The problem? The one I *really* want to write is the one I’m most scared *to* write.
The subject matter is personal. Inside my own skin, personal. The story isn’t finished, because I’m playing out parts of it in my real life. The outcome is uncertain, because, well, *I’m* still waiting to see what will happen. That scares the hell out of me, by the way. The unknown. The unknowable.
Every time I sit down and write some of it, and by “some” I mean a paragraph, two at most, I end up stopping and staring at the cursor. It unendingly blinks and mocks me. I may have this story, and it’s a whopper, but I can’t seem to make myself write it. Most frustratingly, it doesn’t matter that the majority of it is fiction; it’s the small slivers of not fiction that grind my key tapping to a halt.
And that’s when I find myself starting at the cursor. The cursor that mocks me.