I remember all those years where I stared, with slack jawed paralysis, at the blank page. The inertia of inaction breeding only more inaction. Simple physics. My brain, my body couldn’t focus and bring words to life. I read a book once about a school for teenagers where dead spirits possessed their body and they blacked out only to wake hours later with completed paintings, stories, symphonies. I would sit there in my living/dining room chain smoking and wish that kind of creepy would propel me into motion. Because not knowing where to start, the myriad ways to fail was too much weight on my young shoulders.
I started lots of things only to abandon them half formed with flailing, malnourished prose arms. Reaching. Reaching for more. I feel that way, even now, even those in this space more than ten years later where I’ve written two novels. There was a time where I never knew if I could do that or if I ever would. Birthing those words felt very nearly impossible. Wrapping myself around another idea right now does too. But I’m at a different angle of the abyss now. I know, despite the daunting crevice, its possible to shape, pare, and cultivate these seeds of an idea into something cohesive. Good? Only time will tell. For now it is enough to keep working.