I don't know why I get afraid to sit down and write. It's total madness. I love to write. I love the stories I'm in the midst of. And yet, I find I am forcing myself to sit down and write.
Instead of going on to the next chapter of 'Blue,' I'm editing previous chapters. Now that is important work for I'm offering these chapters up for critiquing. Yet... It feels like an excuse.
Time and again, I see that I can write. I know it. For the last chapter I was editing, I had to add some stuff. It took only moments to write what turned out to be about two hundred words. No sweat. No difficulty. No pain.
I have to remember this as I go to the next chapter. I have to let the Muse have her way and not think of where I'm going. I only know the ending. I don't know what's happening in between. The Muse does. And she tells me. If I listen.
Drat - back to that listening thing.
Life is bizarre.