Often I sit down to write, and feel as though I’ve lowered a bucket into a well. Deep inside myself a rope unspools, a dangling bucket lurching towards some great pool of ideas and words. Some days I can withdraw great stories, put into words my thoughts and feelings– and other days I can’t. It feels as though the bucket has hit a patch of ice– and my fingers are frozen on the keyboard.
It’s difficult to write when I know it’s not my best work. I can feel the well has dried up, and I have to dig deeper to find anything to write about. My laptop becomes my spade, and hard gravel gets spat up behind me as I burrow into my brain. At times I’m successful, others I’m not.
Recently I have rededicated myself to writing more often. It feels good to write; writing makes me happy and stretches my limits.
The only way to get better at writing is to write.
So here I go.