I need to write, but I can’t write. I call myself a writer, but when I sit down to write, no words come out. I think I’ve gotten into the habit of suffering from writer’s block. I’ve sculpted my muse into a tiny fragile gossamer weakling – beautiful, powerful in a way, but ever so delicate – and the slightest breeze knocks her askew.
It’s time to give her some big kicking boots and a mallet.
I need to write, and I can write. I can write at least a little every day, at least here, at least 100 words, even if all I write about is how hard it is for me to write.
Over time, my muse and I will become better acquainted. Over time, we’ll learn better how to work together and the words won’t feel like a fight anymore. Over time – but if and only if I show up. If and only if I write.
I can’t be a writer if I’m not writing. If I’m not writing, I’m a… a what? A looker? A sitter? A blocker? I don’t know, but not a writer. Writers write – and sure, we get stuck sometimes, and that’s okay.
But it’s not okay to stagnate. And that’s what I’ve been doing; stagnating. Living in stuckness.
No wonder I don’t feel my worthiness – I’m not living it. I’m living in my stuckness, in my inabilities, in my fears and in my pains.
It’s time to write. It’s time to live – to embrace my resistance instead of avoiding it, and to move through it, and to live my worthiness. Because I am worthy. We all are.