It's that peripheral feeling of anxiety. Something just out of the corner of my mind's eye that pulls me back and forth ... back and forth.
Like when you know you have an important project looming, but have no idea where to begin. You know you have to at least make an attempt, and hope that in the fumbling you come up with one hell of an idea to pitch.
It's like that with writing.
It peeks at you from around a hidden corner, teasing and taunting.
Whispering, "Come find me. Set me free."
And as you run after it ... it laughs and runs faster.
Like Hide-and-Go-Seek, it's ever elusive.
You can't begin to comprehend if it's an internal revealing piece of work beckoning at you or some silly love poem clamoring to be penned.
But ... You sit in some semblance of silence, hoping if you are quiet enough, still enough, it will cuddle up next to you and allow you to embrace it.
Until then, I struggle with the concept. I fight against the grain of it all, and pray to the Universe I don't screw it up.
