The first line is painstaking.
Of writing, that is, especially if you’ve not penned a thought in some time. Especially, if you want it to mean something. So, I usually just throw something completely lame out there to take the pressure off. Pressure. To write well.
And so it seems I’ve been tiptoeing for the last 351 days, along the edge of an imaginery pressure cauldron.
Avoidance was precautionary. I’m plenty busy with other things. There are so many voices. Just another blog.
Nevertheless, it is the very thing I love to do. For me.
Interestingly enough, a friend said something to me yesterday, completely unrelated to this internal tug-of-war,
“Be careful what you share because few people care and most are just curious.”
Few people care. Most are curious.
So, why wouldn’t I write? Just for me. And as for curiosity, well, it really only killed a cat, I’m told. In a sense, she talked me off the pot. No more squatting.
And really… there is no pressure. Just write, Aimee. Just write.