I’ve been struggling to put pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard, in recent weeks. I didn’t understand why until I read the last paragraph of Stephen King’s ‘On Writing’.
I’d forgotten that it’s OK for me just to write, not to have any expectations, just to write, not to know where a particular piece of writing might take me, just to write, not to think too much about it really, just to write.
I’d somehow lost sight recently of the fact that when I just write, with no big agenda, it makes me happy. Thank you Stephen King:
“Writing isn’t about making money, getting famous, getting dates, getting laid, or making friends. In the end, it’s about enriching the lives of those who will read your work, and enriching your own life, as well. It’s about getting up, getting well, and getting over. Getting happy, okay? Getting happy. Some of this book – perhaps too much – has been about how I learned to do it. Much of it has been about how you can do it better. The rest of it – and perhaps the best of it – is a permission slip: you can, you should, and if you’re brave enough to start you will. Writing is magic, as much the water of life as any other creative art. The water is free. So drink. Drink and be filled up.”