F* It Days’

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Writing can come on like a series of neck cranking sneezes.  The words ooze out of your pours accompanied by a heart quickening, slightly sweaty, rush.  Your encouraged.  Perhaps you have begun to master your craft;  the effort and dedication is finally going to shine through your story.  And then, there are days like I have had today.  Days where you sit for chunks of time, musing over the same paragraph you have just rewritten three times, but for some teeth grinding reason still escapes you.

The pinch in your lower back begins taunting you, a physical manifestation of that negative voice of doubt that seep in every so often.  Time for a break, you convince yourself, but deep down you know your just dying to look at anything else besides the damn keyboard, your fingers romantically waltzing, ghost typing.

This is the time, those moments that differentiate those authors who get their work read, and those who work on the same book for a lifetime.  These days appear unproductive, mask themselves as the mark of a untalented writer (hard work over time=talent); these blips build character, fortify a writer’s ego.  Although you may not met your quota, despite knowing that pesky thought awaits you tomorrow to work on until your eyes fill with cobwebs; the important thing is that you get back to work.  After all, this is what you do.  This is who you are.  Own it and the tough times that come with it.

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