And I want to write well. Really really well. I want to write the next Caldecott or Newberry Medal winner.
The real problem, though, is that this perfectionism and indecision has paralyzed me. I have so many stories that I've started in virtually all of the genres mentioned that when I actually make the time to write, I don't know what to do. The writing folder on my computer looks eerily similar to my craft cabinet: too many projects begun and too few finished.
To make matters worse, I'm on the fourth book of a series by Andrew Peterson (The Wingfeather Saga) that is exactly the kind of story I want to write: creative, original, action, adventure, humor, heartache, joy, good vs. evil, multi-layered plot, and oodles of themes explored. And he does it well. How can I ever come up with something like this? I can't. Might as well throw in the towel.
I've given up writing more times than I can count, but it never lasts. I've tried to run away from it, off and on, for years. I have too much going on. Who has time to write anyway? Life is too full, and people are more important, right? I need to answer one more email, send one more text, check Facebook and Instagram; is that my daughter calling? BUT it seems I just can't shake it. When I don't write for a while, it haunts me like Casper. It's friendly, but it's there. I end up crabby. Itchy. Unsettled. Squirmy.
Writing gives me some kind of endorphin release.
I began to write this post this morning. It's now evening after a long day at the office. I checked Facebook earlier, giving my brain a little break from the details of my job. I belong to several writers' groups on FB, and today, I just happened to find this on one of those pages: