My ex-fiance used to mock me for claiming to be a writer, but not ever writing. He didn’t understand and I never wanted to explain, even if I’d had the words back then. Even now I struggle, still have those times when I can’t speak or write at all, or only gibberish comes out. It’s really hard to explain, nor am I generally inclined to. I could paint a picture to show what I’m trying to say, but words don’t come out right. But now, all these years later -what a relief and a beautiful purge to just let go and let it all out.
I have a burst of remission with the major depression and panic attacks, wahooooo; that crushing, soul-sucking weight has eased up a lot, and I know it’s because I finally started to write. For whatever reason, the flow is a lot easier and I can actually produce without feeling like I’m digging my insides out with a fork. Already up to 7000 words and I’m having a glorious time.
My protagonist is currently running around Europe with stolen treasure, and I’m running around all lost in my characters and plot and completely uninterested in my regular life. Would that I had the time to write all the time and not have to worry about basic survival.
Stay A Little Longer – Brothers Osborne
Daylight – Disciples
Every Little Thing – Carlene Carter
Down to the Honkytonk – Jake Owen