threw a hay maker swing at writer’s block. Why not, it’s been beating the crap out of me for three years. One day I’ve got fifty two thoughts and plot outlines running through my head, the next I’m a mess of depression. A mass on the floor crying my soul out. (Family who see this, don’t panic. I’m better now. Thanks therapy and Prozac.)
I used to love to write. I was published once in a local magazine. When I saw my name and work in print, I flipped! When my family called I said, “Hello, published writer here!” The impossible came true.
Maybe it was the work that scared me. Maybe I thought I wouldn’t measure up. After all, writing isn’t just a hobby, it’s a business. A billion dollar a year business. People look at your work and expect to make a mortgage on it. Wouldn’t it be great if we could all be the next…whoever? As rich as J.K. Rowling?
I lost the passion because I was blinded by glory. Glory is good, but it doesn’t make me happy–truly happy–with myself. I need passion like a body needs salt. But I also need to go easy on myself. Just put one word alongside another and see what happens. I don’t expect to make a deep impression on anyone with this post. Except writer’s block. Bam! Right in the kisser.