What Am I Waiting For

Ok, where to start? You see, that’s just it, that’s the problem. Where to start? I’ve wanted to write a book for as long as I can remember; I’ve been rattling on about it for years. It’s not as if I’ve kept it to myself either. I’ve told friends and family and anyone who has cared to listen. Well where is it then? THIS BOOK? It’s all very well producing a 300 word piece of flash fiction every day, writing the occasional article, and entering the odd writing competition. These things are within my writer’s comfort zone. My dreamy-peachy-creamy comfort zone. But it’s time to move onwards. Onwards and upwards. Time to raise my pen towards the stars and emerge from my comfort zone like a Phoenix rising from the flames. But if only I could leave my self on the ground. I need to get away from myself, to escape from the ‘I’, from this stifling egoism that keeps me chained to the first person perspective, hindering my creativity. It’s always me me me me me. So before I can start, I must unleash my writing self, free it up, oil its arthritic hips and get it snaking around the dance-floor like a Latino lover on ecstasy. It’s time to be bold, write in second and third person, invent characters - male characters, child characters, elderly characters - write about different subjects. Yep it’s time to jump into the ring, hold up the red towel and let my insecurities charge me - a full frontal assault on my writer within. Let them rip me into a million shreds; let my guts be splattered across the page, and every piece of paper be stained with the ink of my soul. Let them make me tell it from the inside. Out.