Here is what happens nine times out of ten: I think of something. I write down my thoughts. I tidy it up. I publish it on my blog. I walk away.
Then I pause and wonder what the heck I was thinking. This is rubbish. What do I know? And how dare I presume that I write anything worth reading?
I think about it and come up with what I like to call diddly squat. Of that I have a lot though.
Writers, artists, anyone creating anything, seem to simply follow an irresistible compulsion to ‘put it out there’ and so we do. Despite all doubt and, perhaps, criticism, we continue.
I dare, because I have no choice and I need to write a million words in the hope that I will become the writer I want to be.
And when I’ve written a million words, I will start on the next million.
Some of it, probably a lot of it, will be woefully useless. But if I get something that is good out of it, it will at least have been worthwhile.
And that’s why I dare to hit ‘publish’ on my next blog post or short story and all the ones after that.
Strangely, nobody has ever told me to stop or that I write rubbish. Surely that will happen eventually. No writer is universally loved (probably not even Neil Gaiman).
All feedback thus far, though, has been positive and encouraging.
So I’ll continue, clearly that’s partly thanks to you, dear reader.