Why do I stop writing stories so abruptly? I get into a story only to lose interest and put it aside to work on later. Only “later” is as elusive as a mythical unicorn and is as easy to catch as a handsome man with a fat checkbook– a man like that is almost as rare as a unicorn now that I think of it.

I don’t know why I give up. I certainly do not believe in surrendering. Maybe deep down, as I discover the characters, I’m afraid I will uncover something aboiut myself. Something unwholesome and unlovable. Something unpure.

I don’t want to let go and permit the story and the people that reside in my head out. (If that makes me sound crazy….welll….I guess I’m nuts and proud to be that way!) I am so resistant to most forms of intimacy, and writing is exceptionally intimate to me. Yet, if I don’t write, I am literally torn up inside. For me, it hurts to not write.

HOW do I let go and not worry about being judged? HOW do I share the most hidden parts of my thoughts with others? How do people let others past their most powerful walls to share love and life and their most delicate thoughts? How do people get over being scared and hurt?

If I listen to one part of my brain: Suck it up and get your ass out in real life. Another part wants to hide and critique what I look like and how I carry myself. (Mostly head down, chin pointed at chest while at work.) Yet another slice of my gray matter wants to eat and try to comfort myself with food.