I sit down to start writing, and at first it feels hard, impossibly hard. What foolishness made me ever presume I could write anything of consequence. I don’t know what to write. But, I have to try, give it a proper effort, so I keep jotting down rubbish.
Then I have another idea; I write down the same meaning with new words. It’s not “there”, but there is “something”. By the third or fourth try I feel good about that part. It’s not great, but it’s not bad either. Time to move on.
This time it’s easier, building off what I’ve already written, the next piece only takes 2 or 3 tries. And now I’m moving, racing to keep up with the thoughts that float through my mind.
There’s no room for doubt, only the words I frantically jot down, as my thoughts continue to race ahead.
Then I stop, catch my breath. I look at what I’ve written, more curious than anything else. Then I realize…it’s good? Not great, but better than I expected, better than I thought I could.
“How did I do that?” I wonder.
So I start writing again, and again it seems impossible, terrible, but I plod along, and before I know it “it happens again”, and again I’m too busy writing to notice, until it passes, and once again I have no idea how I did it, but now I’ve done it twice, and that means I can do it again.