I have the freedom to write whatever I want. I live in a free country and in this day in age where you live will affect what you can write. If you live in a free country you should feel fortunate that you will never be persecuted or condemned for any of your words – freedom of words is fast becoming a luxury. Be grateful that you don’t have to think twice about if what your writing could put you in jail or have you killed.
The worst that can happen to you is people will not like what you have written and will be very, very mean to you or worse, ignore you.
But just because I have the freedom to write whatever the fuck I want, doesn’t mean I have the courage to.
I told people I was a writer for years before I actually really wrote anything. Because in my mind I was a writer. I was already there. I could see it, feel it. I just hadn’t actually written anything yet. That, and I’m a bit of a mental case…
Pfft minor details.
There was so many things in my way, I created excuses as fast as I could imagine them. My excuses were probably very similar to yours.
Here are my top excuses excluding the small daily excuses I still make.
Daily Excuses Not to Write:
I will write after I -
Binge watch everything currently on Netflix
And the big excuses that really did a lot of damage are as follows:
There is never any time to write.
But really, if you need to do it. You’ll make time for it. You always have time to eat and fuck.
I’m not educated enough.
God dammit! Pick up a book and educate yourdamnself. You’ll learn far more by trying and failing than never trying at all.
I’ll will start writing after - insert event, holiday, or some other starting point here-
All of that should really read: I’m scared.
That’s the truth. I’m not good enough, I have nothing to write and everyone is going to laugh at me.
Assume that’s all true and write anyways.
A dose of fear can be healthy. Recently, another blogger* wrote
“Turn fear into fire.” (some people have the coolest mottos.)
It struck me, resonated through my bones. My fear of failure has completely paralyzed me for years, instead of accumulating words on a page, I have accumulated wasted time and the regret that comes with it.
Your fear is either going to fuel you, or be what’s in-between you and the dream. It’s really up to you.
I made up my mind. No more excuses. I was going to h̶a̶v̶e̶ ̶a̶ ̶d̶r̶i̶n̶k̶ write a book.
I was going to write the book that I wanted to read.
Of course, I went at it all wrong.
I thought that if I could just write a romance, or a really good erotica I would fill the void…with money. Lots and lots of money. I tried, oh my god did I try. It didn’t come at first, so I tried again after a couple of drinks and it came easier.
Unfortunately drinking before sitting down at my computer quickly developed into a habit that I’m still not sure how to feel about…I might have a problem, or I might just like being drunk in front of my computer – one of life’s many mysteries.
My first couple of attempts at erotica are so hard to read now. I have some serious respect for all those of you who can pump out the naughty books. Although my attempts were earnest, my intent was not. The story would start out all:
“I don’t deserve you”
“But don’t you see? I was made for you.”
All soft kisses and hard nipples, and I shit you not, would end with:
“…refusing to make eye contact with Priest McChildRaper. He is all that my fantastic nightmare is made of…
…I’m contemplating how fucked up I would need to be to have this massively ugly, drooling, old man put his stinking penis in my pussy? In my mouth? I see it all go down. The sweat rolling off his hairy ass, down his crack, making its way down the wrinkly testicles as he’s convulsing behind me. His cheese dick going in and out in and out. His bulging blue eyes, the drool sliding out from the corners of his mouth hitting my back. The sweat drips off his sack and goes down my thigh…"
Priest McChildRaper?? Wtf? I can’t …I don’t even know… I’m saying this is where I came from…