It’s Saturday. Less than two days left before I start to write. Part of me feels like this is the last weekend of my life. Another part is looking forward to Monday.
What if I just sit here?
What if I stare at this screen and nothing happens?
I do have a title so that’s something. But what if I can’t even write a first line?
In the past two years I’ve written those 200 pages that I ended up stuffing in a drawer; a short story for the anthology A Hell of a Woman and a flash fiction piece. Not my usual output. Not me at all. Not who I once was.
Time has passed, I’ve grown older and I’m rusty. I have a new Word program. I’m not even sure I know how to use it properly.
But here’s the thing I have to remember: I’m not writing for anyone but myself. This is both good and bad. It’s good because I can be on my own schedule, take my time, screw up. Bad because I’m not writing for anyone. Agent, editor, publisher. They aren’t thinking about me. This is a whole new world.
Will I be able to do this without the carrot?
WTF, I’m simply going to try.