Sometimes, writing comes easily. Words pour out like water bursting through a dam.
Sometimes, it does not.
After I hit NaNoWriMo's 50,000 word count, I kept a great deal of momentum. I haven't slacked off entirely - in fact, in the last 8 days, I have added an additional 10,000 words. But I wrote 25,000 words per 8 days for the first half of the month, and I do feel a bit disappointed in myself for having had some days where I didn't write, where I played Pokémon or watched Star Trek: The Next Generation, instead.
I could tell you that it's because I'm stressed about moving and our lawyer not having pinned down a closing date, or because I'm having angst about a kitten which I may or may not be able to adopt despite desperately wanting to. And these things are true. I've had some lovely nightmares, and have become very familiar with what the world sounds like at 4 in the morning.
But it's not the complete truth, and if you can't tell the truth to your (potential, one day, maybe) blog readers, who can you tell?
The truth is, I have let myself get out of the habit of writing. It's easier. It's less scary. What used to be my favorite activity has become fraught with fear, as I'm terrified that after every word, the well will dry up for good. There will be no more inspiration. I'm so afraid to fail that I haven't let myself try.
So here I am, writing a blog post. Because it's shorter, easier, but it's not a complete step away from writing. I may not be looking at my novel, but I still see a blank page that needs to be filled. And tonight, I'm going to try to get back to my writing.
To anyone who may read this at a later date and think, "Gee, that sounds like me," all I can tell you is this:
I don't know if it leads anywhere. I don't know if you'll ever be read, your work loved. I don't know if my work will ever be read or loved either.
But don't give up. I think quitting without even trying to achieve your dream is still infinitely sadder than being lazy, or failing time after time.