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Yes this has been me as of late, well, minus the viking helmet. As much of a plan as I may have for one story or another, the words and sometimes the motivation seems to evaporate before I get it written down on paper.

When did writing become so hard? I remember a time when I was young and it used to be so easy. I used to have a million ideas, and I would wake up in the middle of the night and write all sorts of things that couldn’t wait until morning. I guess I have no idea where my enthusiasm went, probably drowned out by my now adult life, and my seemingly never ending ungodly stress level.

Sometimes I worry my writing won’t be good enough. No one close to me ever seems to want to read it anymore, not that they ever read it to begin with. I’ve had a printed copy of my second novel sitting here on the book shelf and year and a half now, and even my hubby hasn’t given it so much as a second glance.

Several years ago my friend Penny would have been standing next to my printer with her hands out waiting for the next chapter. She died from cancer a few years ago, and finishing a project since then is so much harder, especially without my one person fan club, and her encouragement. That’s one of only a very long list of things I still miss about her, and always will.

Penny didn’t just passively read what I had written, but loved to give me her input, encouraging things she believed would make what I had written even better. I think all of us need that sometimes. We need to hear not only what needs fixing, and what we can do to make improvements, but also what is good and going right. In other words, this is what works, and these are the things that would make it even better.

Sometimes I get so caught up in believing it all has to be perfect the first time, that it completely stops my momentum. I get discouraged believing no one will ever want to read it, no matter how much love and hard work I put into telling the story. I ask myself what I do it all for.

The answer is, it’s because I have to…

If the story doesn’t get told, it is wasted. What good are all the infinite worlds inside your head, if you are the only one that ever journeys into them? I keep trying to remind myself of these things, and keep edging forward, even if baby steps. I don’t want to believe I have an irretrievable imagination. Even if the old ideas won’t return, or seem childish now through older eyes, I hope I haven’t ceased to invent new ideas, new universes, and those that reside in them.

I don’t think my mind would be happy at all, limited to just one world.