I’m the kind of writer who joyfully overestimates his own ability every time I sit down to type. And I’m sure I’m not the only one… I smile, pull open my laptop, look at the pages before me and think, “finish editing the whole book today? hell yeah!” One paragraph later: “finish the whole chapter today? Of course!” Thirty minutes and a few sentences later: “finish the paragraph today? OBVIOUSLY!” And then I get three sentences done. But even that doesn’t diminish the feeling I get when I start working. I…
Some folks call their Inner Critic ‘writer’s block’ and, since this is such a well-known issue, accept the fact that their creative brain is diseased for at least the rest of the day and content themselves with email checking and Tumblr tumbling. The concept of ‘writer’s block’ has never made sense to me, simply because it’s not a valid excuse for other professions, so it shouldn’t be for mine, either.
So when you picture a writer as that guy who sits at Starbucks® sipping his Flat White®, waiting for divine inspiration to fill his blank word document, please know that I’m going to try to slap you through the internet. And I’m not gonna feel bad about it.
Small things direct our lives, I realize. Minuscule impulses. An unimportant walk to the icy sea, a casual glance to the dark shadows, a tingle of curiosity. And like lightning out of a clear sky, the world is irrevocably changed.