There is no greater gift than being able to write. The confidence to write. The humility to know your weaknesses, admit them, and suffer enough to work through them. Repetitive practice. Spotting problems. Opening the damn grammar book and practicing it.
Knowing when you are tired and slipping back into old habits.
Dealing with those slow and quiet days, where "not writing" happens one day after the other and you fall out of practice. Knowing on the second day of this happening you better sit down and damn it, write something in your blog just so you don't fall out of habit.
Keeping the habit.
I know someone, a beautiful writer, who can't publish. They have great and wonderful ideas, but they lack confidence and the determination to make their dream happen. I encourage, I do what I can, but I get the feeling they never will experience they happiness of setting something free - and letting people say thank you.
Then there is me.
Probably worse, a writer who can write but won't. Her own hang ups. A tragedy that knocked her out of the game. Giving up. Feeling she can't find the will.
But she can.
She is here doing this now.
I am working on ideas, and finding simplifying them is my greatest ally right now. I had grand plans, but those are doomed to fail when just one tiny part of that great and grand idea would be more than enough to explore.
A tiny piece.
I feel at times my ambition works against me. My perfectionism. My grand plans to do a huge this and that. I plan big and do nothing.
I should be planning small and starting.
I should get something done.