Getting started is hard people. Seriously. Having nothing to force me to write – no classes, no assignments – means that the act of actually writing is really, really hard.
I stopped writing my Morning Pages a while back. In fact, I stopped reading The Artist’s Way altogether because I felt like a total fraud. Who am I to call myself a writer at all? I have ideas and dreams and characters in my head but they aren’t going anywhere. The voice inside tells me to grow up, be responsible, get more freelancing project managing work and move on. Some people are creative and my voice tells me that I’m not one of them. And sadly, I give that voice more credit than my dreams, more power than it deserves.
I’m stuck in the mud between wanting to write and actually doing it. I have a germ of a character in my head. A sweet mother and housewife with a wish to have a secret. She’s quiet but persistent and I find myself thinking of her at odd moments – a bit of “what would she think of that?” or “what would she do if she were in that situation?”
And I love that.
So. Again, I find myself toying with the idea of Morning Pages with a twist. This time, I want to do my Morning Pages AND commit to 15 minutes of writing – actual fiction writing about this character – a day. Fifteen minutes is doable I think. My Morning Pages may be 3 pages or may be less. I just need to write. I need to give myself permission to be a writer.
So what if it’s crap? So what if nobody ever reads it?
I’ll still be a writer