I’ve been at it again. That writing business – I mean the writing a story thing, not the writing that I do here so much.

Yesterday I was conversing with G. about a story-thought I’d had and how I’m a little bit shy about writing anything because to actually write out a whole story and do it properly is a whole lot of work, and revision and crafting and self-doubt and I don’t really feel up for it.

G. concurred. And also said “Everyone loves having written.”. “Like running”, says me. We agree. But then: this morning. I do not love having written. It took me as long to grind out 249 words as it usually does to write a whole blog post here, and I currently cringingly hate every single sentence of it.

I have a story I want to tell but I’m not sure I have the craft to tell it.

But you know what? I’m going to do it anyway, because right now that feeling of discomfort and incompetence is weirdly appealing to me. It feels like the next right step in my life, it feels like maybe I’ll learn something about myself and my creativity by doing this.

And maybe I’ll abandon it after five days like the terrible creative-mother that I am. Thinking about so many half-birthed projects on my resume. Should I not follow the advice I gave to G. a few years back and Just Finish Something – pick a thing and work it to completion rather than starting new things the whole time.

To be honest I’m going to be pretty happy to find myself just creating something, even if I’m creating the wrong thing, it’s better than continuing to float in the limbo in which I’ve been existing up until now.

So now, a plan for the day! Oh! I find myself consumed with the desire to be on a longer holiday. Stop that, self! Appreciate what you have in the now, etc. etc.

Right. Day. Up and get ready and children ready and school run, and actual run and back and shower and then a long day of battling entropy. Tonight there’s an open night for the children’s school and I’ll make a roast chicken for dinner and it’s all sounding very domestic and for today I’m actually feeling okay with that. Much and all as I may detest the words that have slithered from my brain, it still feels good to have done something with my brain. Something difficult.

So I can head into the day having created something. For the cost of a half an hour of time, I feel a little more like a person with purpose, a person who exists outside of my parenting and house-keeping responsibilities.

I’ve got The Places You’ll Go ringing me on my way this morning: My mountain is waiting, so I’ll get on my way.

(Shorter blog post than usual this morning, because I already paid 249 words off my writing debt before I came over here.)