I usually run around professing my love for writing, but today I realize how naïve (OK, plan stupid) and misguided I’ve been. Other writers have expressed this sentiment more eloquently than I, but I have to put in my two cents, too. Why not? It’s the only thing I actually feel like writing today: a diatribe about how angry I am with writing. Here’s the problem, over the last few years, I’ve written about a dozen encyclopedia entries about amazing people, mostly writers. What’s so hard about writing 1 or 2 more, right? Well, it is hard! I’m stuck in the all I really want to do is read stage. Every time I push myself to try to write, I give myself the “I don’t know where to begin” or “I don’t know what to write” crap. It’s completely nonsense. Why is it that every time I sit down to write it is as if I’m on a first date? I don’t have time for nervous jitters. I have a due date!
