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 Each day feels new, and my memory of the one before is faint. I’m learning to adapt. |
| This morning, I’m doubting whether I’m a real writer. I love framing the house. I’m less enthusiastic about painting the trim. In writing terms, I love drafting. Big ideas. Fast fingers. Characters talking over each other while my coffee is still too hot to drink. That part feels alive. Revision? Revision feels like reheating yesterday’s coffee and pretending it’s fresh. The story is out of my head. The walls are up. The roof is on. Now I’m supposed to sand corners and make sure the doors don’t stick. That’s when my brain wanders. “Maybe it’s not good enough.” “Maybe real writers enjoy this part.” “Maybe I should start something new.” Classic avoidance. And here’s the funny part: while I’m doubting whether I’ve learned the craft of finishing, I’m sitting here writing a blog post about it. Which is technically finishing something. I don’t hate polishing. I just don’t get the dopamine rush from it. Drafting is that first strong cup of coffee. Revision is the slow sip after it cools. Not flashy. Not dramatic. Just steady. Framing the house is fun. But if I want guests, I need to paint it too. And drink fresh coffee while I’m at it. |
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