I have a confession to make: I haven't written in a month and a half. Besides nonsensical emails to friends bemoaning the loss of my muse, my hands have been sadly separated from my keyboard. Even when I found time to sit down and write, I haven't worked on my WIP, or my new ideas, or my secret-project-that-I-shouldn't-think-about-despite-its-awesomeness-because-it-distracts-me-from-my-WIP.
I know. And I call myself a writer.
I panicked for a while. Have I run dry? Have I lost interest because it's hard sometimes? Do I really not have what it takes? Should I stop blogging about writing when I'm so obviously a poser?
But then, a few days ago, I had a breakthrough. I was reading a book that I really enjoyed, but when I finished I thought, "That ending was anticlimactic." It wasn't terrible. The story was good. It just wasn't...earth shattering.
And then I realized that I'd paralyzed myself while waiting for my writing to become earth shattering, too.
Now, based on my blog posts, I'm sure you all would be expecting nothing less than deep and profound from me (why are you laughing?), but its not likely to happen. I write for fun, and I expect people will read my stories for fun, and if I inspire the odd revolution, well, that's really just icing on the cupcake.
I don't need to shatter the earth. I have a story to tell. It's a good story. People will enjoy it. So now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to take my self-inflicted pressure suit off (*psshhhhh*) (That's me taking off my pressure suit.) and write with reckless abandon. Reckless, I tell you. With maybe an anticlimactic plot twist or two.