My emotions around writing confuse me, and I suspect I’m not alone.
I want to write, I really do, and when I’ve done my session each day I feel great, but before I begin I dread it – a bit like the feeling I used to have with homework, except no one is making me do it but myself.
This week I have been writing quite merrily for just over an hour each day – that’s standard for me when working on a first draft. And it’s true that the more often I write the easier it is to return to the desk. Any sort of time gaps between sessions can allow those feelings of dread to grow.
And what is it exactly that I dread? It must be that the ideas will run out – I will be left staring at the page with nothing to say and no idea of where I am going. And why is this thought so terrifying? Because if I didn’t have characters and stories, life for me would be very flat and grey. I don’t know why but the fictional world is more colourful to me than the world I live in. I think it’s because in a story I can get into everyone’s heads – which I find fascinating whereas in my world the only head I live in is my own.
I haven’t written today. The fear got too much for me, and I have the very valid excuse of having a cold. But I will tomorrow, or if not then, Tuesday. I always come back to writing, like a moth to the light, something pulls me back to the story. It’s the only way forward …