Dec. 10, 2001
It’s come to the point where I don’t feel like talking about writing anymore; all I want to do now is just do it.
No more analysing, no more reading how others did it, no more playing tricks to get me to write, no more 12 step programs, no more thinking outloud or talking about all the projects I have. That has to stop, or the writing won’t ever really begin.
The old quote, “Those who can do, do, and those that can’t talk a lot about it,” keeps popping up in my mind. I’ve done the reading, I’ve done the homework, I’ve done the playing. It’s time to do the work. And not sporadic bits that keep give me a false sense of accomplishment, but hard down, dirty I’m exhausted and it’s not going to stop for awhile work.
I’ve known I’ve had to do this for a long time, but I keep putting it off. I buy books to read telling myself it’s to help me learn but it’s really to keep me from writing. I think, as much as I feel like a writer, I’m still afraid. Still afraid to be proven wrong. Afraid that my writing isn’t acceptable, afraid to be found out that I’m a phony, afraid that all those that see me as test waters will be disappointed if I don’t make it.
When I think about it all, I freeze up. I pretend that I don’t but I do. I pretend I have reasons for not writing – dishes, cleaning, my art program, family, moving, lack of ideas, cold weather, no tea. But the only reason I have is being afraid because of everything that has been swimming around in my brain. The only thing I can think to calm myself is to just do it.
Don’t think, just do. Let it come out. Start writing. Don’t stop. Don’t worry. Do.