I only have me to blame.

Writing can be a soul sucking job. I’ve had people tell me “why don’t you quit” and the thing is, you don’t just stop writing. If you don’t write, you shrivel up and pretty much fall apart. It’s what drives us, what challenges us, what gives our lives more purpose. The simple of act of using our fingers, or a pen, and putting words on paper, is one of the greatest things a writer can do.

Yet, there are times we shrivel up and don’t write. We don’t share. We are… frozen. I was working on another piece at my full-time site, A Daily Pinch, and considering my life and the anxiety I have. Yes, I get terribly anxious over the act of writing, as I often at times feel as if I have duct tape on my mouth. As I was thinking this and DM’ing with two fellow writers, I’ll call them Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum (they’ll appreciate the reference), one commented, before the other had a chance, they chimed in to let me know I didn’t have duct tape on my fingers.

It’s so profound. Yet so… disheartening. I don’t have anything to blame. Not my social anxiety. Not my introvertedness. Not my fear of failure. PMS isn’t allowed, nor is a desperate need for Fro-Yo, RIGHT NOW.

There are times I wish I still smoked. Or drank. (I have one bourbon, once a month. That does not a drinker make.) At least I’d have something to do while pondering everything. Don’t tell me to increase my coffee, because if were to increase consumption I’ll levitate — and unless I can fly whilst levitating, I’m not going to be a happy gal.

I only have me to blame. Me. Me. Me.

No one has put braces on my brain. No one has taped my hands. No one is stopping me.

Except me.

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