I just ended my writer's block this morning. However, I'm not impressed. It seems I can write scenes from prompts but that's it. Completing even a short story seems to be beyond my attention span. I can write pieces but not completed works. Why is that? My library is huge with an enormous variety of books to assist with writing. Yet, the will to write beyond a few minutes escapes me. I've been told I have a talent. It doesn't matter if it isn't applied. Have I found that my dream of being a writer was only in theory and not reality? Not sure. I haven't given up on the dream but do question it.
I do need to cut myself some slack. I am still recovering from back-to-back surgeries. Nearly over a month ago I had a nerve release surgery on my right elbow. Three weeks later a nerve release surgery on my left hand, which proved to be even more difficult in recovery.
I do this. I run into obstacles and fear they are indicators of more serious things. Instead of reminding myself of my current circumstances and keeping in mind that they are temporary setbacks. It's my anxiety that turns it into a fore warning of something more serious. I've had anxiety since I was at least eight years old. You'd think I would have learned by now, but no. I still get caught off guard by it.
I do want to write a book but can't seem to get a vision of the end results. This leads me to never start which, I suspect, is a terrible idea. I'm too goal-oriented and a perfectionist. Those who brag about being a perfectionist are not really one. How do I know? True perfectionists know that its a disability and nothing to parade out in public. It's crippling and something that needs to be dealt with. Not a desired quality to announce to the world as if some fantastic facet of their character.
I'm going to put an effort towards more honest blogging in the sense of vulnerability. This entry marks my first attempt.