Starting to write is like starting to run. Your brain starts playing tricks on you from step one.
“I’m too tired to run”.
“It’s too hot today — it’s dangerous to run outside”.
“My feet hurt, my head hurts, my throat hurts — let’s not go out today”.
“10k? That’s too much. Let’s run less. You can’t possibly do it”.
I sat down to write yesterday, and it was difficult, very difficult to start. My mind started wandering, suggesting that I read my twitter feed, or the NYT, or do anything, just anything but write. It’s like that almost every time I sit down and write, and the only way I found to overcome it is to map out reasonable daily goals and force myself to start anyway. Usually when I start writing I can push myself well enough to the finish, sometimes even a bit farther. The same thing happens when I run — the first 2-3k are a pain, but then I get into the rhythm, and start enjoying myself.
There’s never been a run that I’ve regretted.
There’s never been a writing session that I’ve regretted.
I just need to remember that when the tiny little coward in my brain decided to protest.
Every. Single. Time.