Ever since May, since graduating college, since being lucky enough to win a publishing contract with Write Bloody, since moving to Brooklyn, I’ve had an impossible time sitting down to write. I’ve thought about writing, I’ve found great material for new work, I’ve even imagined particular lines in my head, but I haven’t been able to sit down with a notebook or my computer and actually write.
Example: I’m sitting in a coffee shop right now. And what am I doing instead of writing? I’m writing about how I wish I was writing. So what the hell am I waiting for? I’ve come to the conclusion that I managed to, in my two-month hiatus, idealize the perfect writing conditions. I’ve re-learned how to make a great excuse. Oh, well I just need to wait until I have an entire day to write. Or, oh, I need to find the perfect coffee shop with wifi and a great iced coffee. Or, well, I can’t write at home while my roommates are there, that would be distracting.
What I know, but what I let myself forget, is that there is no great time to write. No perfect condition. Something will always be in the way. The block isn’t in the setting or the coffee or the time, the block is me. I am in control of all of this. I can write. I just have to do it.
As with everything in my world, beginning is the hardest part. I am trying to remember that, and to let it be hard but to also take the challenge and push through. I am trying to forget ideal conditions and accept my world for what it is right now. It is imperfect and so am I, but I can write. I can begin.