How many out there have book ideas swimming around in their heads?
What is it that prevents them from being fleshed out? Is it really time?
I actually think it’s the panic induced by pouring out one’s soul and handing it off to the world. Why? Why? Why?
I am not afraid of what I’ve written.
I am afraid of defending it. Do I have to? Aren’t the words their own little beings? They are not ME.
Writing leaves you exposed. Words betray you. Your soul is revealed, even when you didn’t anticipate it.
Yet, all the while, those little words are building up, clamboring to your brain and tumbling around the sides of your skull, appendages chiseling at crevices to break free.
Get them out.
This is somehow liberating.
Then I look at the sticky notes, journals, scrap looseleaf, notebooks all chock full of oodles of tangents, and I don’t know where to begin.
Get it out.
One. Word. At. A. Time.