When I tried to write my story last time I had this mental picture of what a BOOK was supposed to look like.
The more I tried to fit my words into that mold, the harder the words were to find.
Maybe it’s evident in my writing, but I’m not a big editor.
Even when I had the use of both hands I didn’t take long to write.
Things just came out of me.
They weren’t great. I wasn’t a poet. My words were never going to change the world.
But what I put down was what I felt.
I fixed typos. (I DO, SHUT UP!) I swapped a word. Sometimes I rearranged thing so there was a better flow.
But if a post took heavy duty editing I just scrapped it.
It wasn’t meant to be.
The first chapters that I’d labored over took too much time crafting, they were scrapped.
I started over.
I stopped trying to be the writer my mind thought I should be. The book of my imagination went up in flames. I stopped writing to be read. I wrote what came effortlessly.
The chapters are short. Some things are bullet-pointed. WORD is about to explode from my constantly fragmented sentences.
But the words flow from my brain again. That’s all I wanted.