Today I spent the morning working on my novel, as I try to do most mornings. I did my requisite 1,000 words and the writing flowed from my mind to fingertips with very little effort.
But the peace of that didn't sink in.
I was anxious and wanted to get the whole process over with.
What I really wanted was to have written.
To be acclaimed. To be famous. Maybe to wake up one day to discover I have magically arrived without having had to do all the work, like starting the army as a general rather than a private.
It's fear, of course. I know that. Even fantasies of being acclaimed carry within them the possibility that I won't be. Do I have the courage to find out?
Yet I have other writing days when the Universe lines up behind me, the world collapses at my feet and I know that all will be well. On those days there is nothing I would rather be doing than putting words on the page.
In anticipation of those days, I keep writing. Keep doing what's in front of me, one word, one day at a time.
It's all so simple, but so very difficult.
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