All summer I have “been meaning” to do some writing. Like seriously. I have 2 books that are half done, I have 2 others that are in concept form. I have a list of blog ideas. A children’s book ready for submission with a list of  publishers accepting manuscripts. I have SO much writing to do. I am a writer. I write for a living. I also write for myself.

I love writing.

But I hate starting.

I will do anything other than write. (I might not even finish this post, hold your breath.)

I will binge watch a whole season of British department store drama.

I will organize my lame make-up drawer.

I will pretend I can cook and make yummy dinners.

I will eat a stale bag of Twizzlers.

I will stalk the cute rabbits in my backyard and lure them near me with carrots.

I will cover every random item in my house with chalkboard paint.

But I will not write.

Some of my favourite writers also confess to this issue. Which is comforting, but most of those writers are also on the NY Times bestsellers list. So at some point, they actually overcame their issues and sat their bottom down in a chair and got to work.

I’ve realized that STARTING is something that is hard for me. The black page just stares at me and taunts me. It knows I want to fill it up with wondrous words. Then I stop. I just don’t feel up to the challenge. Closes laptop. Walks away.

I need to stop walking away. I need to face the blank screen.

I need to write.

I need to start.

No more excuses.

No more candy.

No more HGTV marathons. (Darn you House Hunters International for the lofty retirement dreams)

No more empty screens.

I will start.

I will finish.

I will write.

(Blog complete. I beat you empty WordPress screen.)