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my heart aches with longing to write. i want to be consumed, be absorbed, be absolutely engulfed with story and character and delight and heights and depths and all of it.

what is holding me back?

my small, tired brain won’t let me concentrate on reading anything too complex – so i don’t get fed that way. i start on excellent books that grab me from the outset, only to put them down and realise, weeks later, that i’ve completely forgotten those few pages i read and intended to go on with. i write a few pages, every now and again, but nothing near complete scenes let alone complete stories.

there have been times in the past when i couldn’t wait to get back to my stories, to tinker and toil. these days i hardly ever go back to any of them, nor start new ones.

i don’t know if it’s my attention span, or tiredness from work, or boredom in life…probably little bits of all those things. i was going to take this seriously. a couple of years ago i made that decision. but it doesn’t feel like i could live or die by the word. it’s so much more mundane than that.

why don’t they tell you about the beige banality of it all? what is stopping me from leaping into it? why am i such a stereotype?!

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