I haven’t written much fiction so far this year.
Okay, more like any fiction…
No, that’s not fair. I started at least one short story back in January. Or was it February? I gave myself the excuse that I was working on that blog project for my class. I was reading a lot for that class as well. And yet I always found (and find) the time to read articles online and keep track of facebook and twitter. I make the time to watch hockey and other television shows.
And I want to finish that story. But I guess I don’t want to badly enough or I’d do it, right? My class is over and, as a reward, I got myself some fiction to read, books that I’d been wanting to check out for a while now. But it seems like just another excuse. If I have to work (and I do have to work), then I have to carve out other spaces in which to write fiction.
If I want to write fiction.
I mean, no one needs me to write stories. No one needs me to spill the things from my brain onto paper or screen. No one but me.
This is the question, the crux. How much do I need to do this? And is my need to write greater than my fear?