You know, I haven't written in a while. Not for the love of it anyway. More out of duty. And that always irks me.
I love to write. Actually, I love to play with words. Any words will do, as long as I can pick them apart and reshuffle them and make them look as best to me as they can. I'm not discerning, finding myself just as happy writing out my brother's CV as I am waffling away in one of my many journals / diaries / scraps of paper. I can make my shopping lists entertaining if the mood takes me. I even rewrite other people's articles / books / blogs in my head, choosing better words or phrases when I think they are needed.
The trouble with this fascination of all things literary is that I start countless posts and then shelve them, opting to come back to them when I'm more 'in the zone'. And ultimately don't finish any of them. The pressure to create my version of perfection is just too great.
I'm learning, slowly, that sometimes it's better to just spit out what you need to say and worry about how you said it later. Like so many people (I'm discovering), I'm convinced I have the great novel inside of me just waiting to write itself. The trouble is that words don't write themselves, you actually need to apply behind to chair and do the work. Waiting for the mood to strike is a bit like waiting for the right time to have a baby - you spend so much time in preparation of 'the day' that you don't even notice you've been ready all along.