“I don’t know what I’m going to write,” I told my handsome hubby as we climbed the stairs after dinner.
“You’ll think of something.”
And I have. I have thought of a lot of somethings. But none of them seem right.
Not right enough to write.
So this is what we get on a night like this:
My fingers type out one post and save it for another day. Save it, but write it anyway.
My words fill this page and…get…stuck…like they are drowning in molasses. Get stuck, but they fill the page eventually anyway.
And some days, this is what it means to be a writer:
You think of lots of somethings, lots of just-not-right kind of somethings. You write them, you save them, you keep writing. Even when you get stuck. Because, you are a writer, so any way you write anyway.