I’ve been stuck lately. Seriously handicapped in my ability to create, because in a creative field like writing, everything I do, everything I produce, comes from inside of me. My head, my heart, my innermost-hidden soul. And, um, turns out, it’s hard to dig into my hidden soul when I’m trying so hard to just function in this entirely new environment.
It’s a problem.
I’ve tried a lot of tricks that have worked for me in the past. Working out. Going for a drive. Shopping. Long bubble baths. Walking on the beach (which is new, and usually the most inspiring thing I can think to do). Yeah. Not so much.
In cleaning off a shelf, I came across my to-be-read pile, the one that has grown enormously since I moved, due to the fact that I also haven’t done any reading. And I thought, “hey, can’t hurt.” I picked one by an author who has always inspired me to be a better writer, and I read a page. Then a chapter.
And I remembered all the reasons I am inadequate, all the reasons why I will never write something so amazing as what this author writes, and all the reasons why I should probably bury my head in the sand (now that I live by a beach) and quit.
Then I opened my computer and got back to work.
Because I also remembered that the reasons I will never write the way that author writes is because I am ME. And I can write something incredibly amazing and wonderful, but absolutely different from her. I have the ability to do great things and to be awesome, all by myself. And I am the only one who can figure out how to overcome my issues and be better, be artistic and profound and better than remarkable.
I can be adequate.
It’s my choice.
And yours. Choose to be adequate. And get back to work.