I was ten when I wrote my first story in my grandmother’s attic. Right from that first story onwards, I knew I wanted to be a writer. And for the longest time, I didn’t stop writing.
I still have the scribbled pages in a binder in my own attic now. And though I can’t remember the specifics of that story, I still remember how I felt when I wrote ‘the end’. It was the best feeling in the world. Finishing something new that didn’t exist before and only exists because I imagined it. I knew there and then that this what I wanted to do with my life.
I wrote almost every day, wrote six unpublished novels, published several short stories and read the work of others like my life depended on it.
And then I stopped.
There always seemed to be infinite ideas to write about. Infinite stories, characters and adventures to write about. Until I stopped and everything just seemed to dry up. Now when I open up a document to write, the cursor is just blinking at me like it’s laughing in my face.
The inspiration was gone. It still is gone. Whether it’s writing fiction, blogs or anything else. Everything that comes straight from my head seems to have evaporated.
My amazing friend Violeta has a thing where she commits to 30 days of sucking. Publish no matter what. Getting it out there, back on the horse, or whatever you want to call it. With NaNoWriMo around the corner, I’m itching to get back into writing. Deep diving into a world of fiction again. But I also know that I can’t do that without starting small first.
So with only a week left to go before November, I’m committing to writing and publishing every day. Because from now until the end of November I’m going to finally accept Violeta’s challenge and just publish something every day and give myself permission to suck.