I didn’t blog yesterday. Didn’t have anything to say. Still don’t really. I’m deep into my book and have nothing to say about writing.
Fear though. Ooo, yes, know a bit about that.
The white hot fear that all this work will lead to nothing.
And believe me I’m not being one of those who complains and weeps and moans but in the end always gets an A. No. I never got A’s. (Ok, maybe not never, but very rarely.)
So there is a real possibility of failure. Of wasting a couple of years on…nothing.
I’m trying not to growl at my husband who, not surprisingly, tiptoes around me as if I might bite.
I’m trying not to snarl at my children who want breakfast, lunch and dinner.
I’m just trying to get a few words down each day, knowing full well that in the morning I’m going to want to rip them to shreds.
I feel a bit like Penelope, weaving, weaving, weaving…
Sad thing is I’m not waiting for a hunk like Ulysses to appear.
I’m just waiting for my story. To appear on my page. As if it was there all along.
photo by treestman (flickr)