Looking through the library of possible next titles I might read in the Kindle store (in spite of the fact that I am currently already reading two books), I was struck by a sense of envy, of desire, of yearning. I glance through the suggested books from authors I know and areas I've read, and I thought about the people in my worlds that are in limbo, unborn.
I don't know how to start. I realize that at least part of that is: "Write," but the last few times I've tried to write, I haven't come up with anything worthwhile. In spite of that, I still think that the answer is in simply writing. I can write a lot of things that will not be kept, but only by writing will I break into the part of my passion that makes the magic happen.
Tonight, for example, I find it terribly difficult to write. My fingers are dancing across keys, and letters are emerging, forming words and sentences, but I'm not crafting that I would want to advertise or charge money for. There have been several times when I've sat before the screen for this blog and then had thoughts come in great, happy abundance. Not so tonight. Even this navel-gazing is like writing against the current.
This is what I'm really afraid of when it comes to continuing and completing a novel: That I'll be stuck writing drivel. That it will be hard to write and what will result will be unreadably boring.
Not every day in the mine brings up gold.