I used to think the well was always full. I found it hard to relate to people who didn’t know what to write about. I would sit down once or twice a week, think about what I wanted to say and just say it. I would read the last paragraphs I’d written for the novel I was working on and write a couple more. Easy.
I’m not trying to be smug. I have other issues, not knowing what to write just wasn’t one. I get distracted easily. There’s a dissonance between the sharpness with which I can identify what is wrong with my work and the helplessness that I feel when it comes to fixing it. I cringe when I’m too earnest, I feel dumb when I’m too direct. So yes, I have my issues. They’re an integral part of who I am, those practices and vices that stop me from being the writer I wish I could be. I’m just saying that the blank page never scared me. I could always fill it with something acceptable. The well of inspiration and production was always full. I thought it would be that way forever.
I’ve nev…