I’ve been challenged to write for a least three hours a day, at least once a week. So far, not so good. It happened once and the challenge was issued two weeks ago. I’m still at a loss for motivation. I need to make writing a habit instead. Being fueled by creativity is great, but it doesn’t always come at the most convenient time. So a habit is what I need. Like brushing my teeth, or better yet, breathing. It needs to come naturally. Some days, I wonder why I choose to be a writer. Or why I choose to write. I love words. Reading them, expressing them, playing with them. But why do I want to be a writer? I’m good at it. At least I’ve been told that, and most of the time I believe it. But, like most who put pen to paper or fingers to keys, I’m also always not finished. There’s always one more draft to do. One more revision. One more something. I never feel like I’m done. Even when I am, or should have been days ago. Sometimes, there’s too much revision and I should have just left well enough alone. There’s always something. I get scared to share my work. Especially finished work. What if I love it but no one else does? Drafts can have excuses. But when you tell people you’re a writer, they seem to have this expectation that all your writing should be fabulous. Even when it’s not. It’s like you should know how to spell everything, and your grammar should be perfect. Maybe the fear of success is stronger than the fear of failure. What if I am that good? What then? Explaining away why I write something sub-par, are just okay is easy to explain, but explaining why it’s great? That’s tricky. 

I’m on a ramble-page again. Getting this out has been a few days coming. I know I long for the day that I write a brilliant piece and it gets me an agent, published and adored. But for now, I guess I just need to work on writing something. Otherwise, how can I be brilliant when I haven’t written anything?