For the past six months, I have had an illness—blessedly not contagious—called writer’s block. But just now, as I so begrudgingly drug my butt into the prophetic Writer’s Seat, I realized something.
I don’t have writer’s block.
I am afraid.
What am I afraid of?
My book isn’t just words on a page. It’s a living, breathing entity. It has lungs. Its chest swells with every breath. It has a heart that can break, a mind that can crumble.
I am afraid of murdering my book.
My book is my child. I birthed it, nurtured it through the terrible two’s and teenage years. It got rebellious, but I let it be its own entity, directing it in the best path it should go. I taught it manners. It taught me to see beyond words on a page and into a world that is so detailed, it could be real.
But now my book is all grown up and it is time to cut the cord. I’ve done my best at setting the strongest foundation I could for my little one.
Now, I need to trust that it will find its own way.
I need to trust it and I need to trust myself.
More importantly, I need to get back in the seat and write.
I need to no longer be afraid.
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