The difficulty right now isn’t starting. It’s stopping.
I’ll write, and finish, and be perfectly happy with what I’ve done. Then, suddenly, whilst sitting on the loo, or wandering around the supermarket, or waiting for the bus, I’ll suddenly stop, and think ‘you know, I really ought to add that thing’.
Then I’ll add it, and that’ll affect a few others things and I’ve had to rewrite. But there, that’s done.
Nope. I’ll do my usual check for grammar and spelling errors, and half way through start to rewrite the entire thing. Again.
And then…..crash, bang, wallop, another idea, a really good one, that throws an entirely new light on all parts of the book, and there I go again.
There, that’s it, I’m done now. I’m exhausted and drained and have no more to give. I’ll just check the manuscript one last time for all the basic errors….hmm, what if I rewrote this scene….
I’m ill at the moment (I know, I’m always ill, my health is dire), and off work, and can barely walk down the street without collapsing, but I can’t stop writing, even just a page a day. (Well, I feel mentally better afterwards. Physically, I’m exhausted and have to lay down for a nap)
Deadlines are very good for me. Not to get me started, but to force me to finally stop.
And I’m grateful. I know this doesn’t happen to everyone. I know writers get a sudden dearth of ideas. I know there’s always a possibility the words will one day stop coming. That is my greatest fear, that one day, there will be no flow of stories to stop.