Remember how I said I want to be a writer?

Now I know it’s there – I can’t ignore it.

I haven’t been here for weeks and I have 437 excuses. A legitimate one is that we moved house (yay) but that was my excuse for far too long.

So now I’ve owned up and said, yep – I want to write.  But I’m not doing it.  And every day I feel anxious and guilty, and every day it gets a teeny bit worse and worse and now it’s unbearable, so here I am.

I don’t have anything particularly much to say, but that’s an excuse to hide behind, really. So I’ll write anyway (I promise I’ll get some prompts and/or try harder for material so it’s not all rambles about rambling on nothingness).

Through writing you put yourself out there, and that’s fucking scary.  What if I have no ideas, if I sit patiently and nothing comes?  What if I’m shit? What if nobody likes me?

Or what if I hide behind almost-crippling fear and never do anything and wind up at 90 thinking endlessly and only ‘what if?’