Or I'll write now

I threw in a load of laundry. Did the dishes. Put my now really blonde hair up in a ponytail. Grabbed a sandwich and a drink and sat down at my computer. And I'm writing. But not here. I mean, currently I'm writing here. But before and after I'm writing in Microsoft Word. What are you writing, you may ask. Well a book. Ugh. How terribly odd that sounds. But I've written thing after thing after thing. I've torn up manuscripts. I've literally burned pages. I've thrown out stupid stories with orange peels. I've drowned crappy chapters in old spaghetti. I have a problem with commitment. I work and work and then I HATE it with a black heart passion and I destroy what I made. I fucking hate what I write. It sounds stupid and trite and unintelligent and just plain ridiculous.

I am my worst critic.

I destroy what I create.

Draw all the life parallels you choose.

But not this time. Something struck me a while back and the words keep coming and my fingers ache with the repetition. And it may be the worst thing ever made. Or it could be the story my brain and heart and hands have been trying to tell for years. I guess we will see.

I read this silly silly thing today that is so utterly simple and so true.

"Writers write. If you want to be a writer, go write."