I’ve snitches of dialogue written, have entire sections outlined, even the quote that inspired the idea in its place of honor at the top of an almost blank word document.
But for some reason I cannot bring myself to understand, I am scared of actually writing the story.
Frightened nearly beyond reason.
Why? What is it about this one particular thread that makes me want to focus everything; that makes me want it to be closer to perfect than I trust myself to be capable of accomplishing?
As arrogant as this is, I have never had a story that I did not believe myself capable of writing. Sure, some have fallen a great deal short of what I had originally intended, but never have I felt so overwhelmed before even starting.
I don’t understand my newfound hesitance; I don’t buy that I’m truly that humble.
But nervous as I am, the one thing I really want is this story.
“When I use a word,” Humpty Dumpty said in a rather scornful tone, “it means just what I choose it to mean—neither more nor less.”
“The question is,” said Alice, “whether you can make words mean so many different things.”
“The question is,“ said Humpty Dumpty, “which is to be master—that’s all.”