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This is for the writers who hesitate.

Me.

Possibly you too, but definitely me.

And for those who can write effortlessly for hours on end and not give a hoot. But the instant someone___let’s say an editor, noted author, or review panel___is going to read what has been written, transform into a frantic, second-guessing, longwinded redraft-manic mess.

Sometimes also me.

Reaching for words that I wish were there. Turning my mind inside out to find dependent clauses wedged in the crevices. I embrace the inner voyage for better clarity, quality, and depth perception, yet despite my fervent paddling, I am frustrated to find myself at times anchored securely to the dock.

Segments of such writers (not yet me) script the kinds of stories that shift the earth on its axis. They pitch planetary rotation by minute degrees while simultaneously exploding like the first star out of the nebula with an equilibrium of fusion expansion and inward gravity to shine like the suns they are. I marvel in such richness that nourishes and encourages writing neophytes, veterans, and everyone in between to stay on this path of author progression and development that is not always straight, smooth, or even visible.

My journey has taken me through no option accommodation in those dark, acrid holes where nothing comes out the way I really want it to. I hear the defensive, desperate tone in my voice doing its best to convince that “I really can write well but slipped and skinned my metaphorical term on the way down that fifth paragraph.” I look every bit the klutz.

Why, oh why can’t I write one coherent, engaging phrase to save my life? Where did I lose subject-verb agreement___in the trash compactor? How on earth did I miss that typo for crying out loud?! Now my screen is frozen! Arrrrrggghhh!!!

We all have moments. Consider those who say that they don’t to be gifted prodigies or certifiably delusional.

Writing is not always as easy as falling off a log. Oftentimes said log is routinely suspended by crane ten stories off the ground above a disused, empty aqueduct.

But in the final analysis, writing is really and truly pretty darn fun!

My writing alter ego has fierce fire, a wicked sense of humor, and a tyrannical psychoanalyst at the start of my sentences. She picks fights when bored, prefers to play alone, stubbornly refuses to cooperate, hates niches, and then obediently complies and takes a class or ten in creative nonfiction as well as constructive dialogue. She wants endless choices in hot beverages with exponential bathroom breaks. Ignoring my exasperation, she will crawl along at an even slower pace of growth and then annoyingly ask, “Are-we-there-yet-are-we-there-yet-are-we-there-now?”

Writers are in a constant state of transformation. Understandably, it doesn’t always feel so great.

Overthinkers. Completely irrational. Wise beyond years. Frequent fliers with hell and back mileage. Embarrassing. Suddenly quiet. Flippant. Ingenious. And then a barrel of laughs with an infinite array of traits plus idiosyncratic combinations in between blinking, inking author attitudes, and profound conversations near hearth and healing.

Writers. Whoa.

How do they manage to stay sane inside their own skin?

Shhh!!! Sometimes we don’t.

Expression oxygenates us at the cellular level. We just have to work through our stuff, that’s all. And with expertise in descriptive language, our cathartic contortions really can look and sound worse than they actually are.

There are times when I feel like I have spent way too much time writing with the utmost detail about absolutely nothing of consequence. However, I am still in gratitude for written language that enables me to explain just how firmly the rhythm of the music held my heart, driving bass to body and breaths in synchronized harmony, and in the very next sentence plant an oversized foot squarely into the backside of bureaucratic bullshit, clear the room and get backyard down and nasty dirty for some concrete answers.

Yes, they are just words. Then again, they are more.

Why do I and so many others have simile driven, all-and-out bar brawl fights with them words?

Because arrangement speaks to interpretation. It conveys subtleties and nuances. Cautions and protects just so. Persuades and enlightens. It is the sculptor’s hand unable to stop modeling the clay until the masterpiece is complete.

I began school with a four-year-old boy visionary whose mother was an author and head librarian. When our class received instruction in writing basics, he wrote at every available break period and I guess at home. Within the space of several months, he had finished his first handwritten, impressively thick book to my childlike eyes. I don’t think I had the capacity at the time to be sufficiently impressed, but I will never forget the look of accomplishment on his face when he plopped his manuscript down one afternoon and stated that he had finished writing his last page.

Sometimes learning outcomes and understanding are delayed. The important thing is, I got there in the end.

I believe that we as writers are overflowing with infinite concepts, philosophies, riddles, reflections, and more. It is a luxurious, abundant wellspring that sputters a bit when filtered by the global perspectives of so many.

Brave writers stand vulnerable before a bear-like public that with one slash of paw can disembowel if desired; leaving us bloody, speechless, and clinging to life. We are not masochists or suicidal. Never ones to garner pity or ask for special treatment (at least I know I’m not.)

This is our sacrificial offering; a gift. It is giving birth, producing life a thousand times over. Writing is our expressive best despite our most eloquent speech. It is who we are underneath impenetrable silences.

So, should your hands ever tremble (like mine) on occasion, from the self-imposed pressure to produce a piece of work worthy of an internationally recognized standard, remember that writing progression requires you and me to go out there, get read, and be seen with all of our pesky little and not-so-little insecurities about our craft.

Think about those who write and never share a thing, as there is always a choice. All writers’ works are treasures. They script planetary scales for a greater good and generally demand nothing. But treasured pearls carefully removed from oysters grow, again and again, year after year; in maturity, to produce the more brilliant, beautiful, and extraordinary valuables.

Today’s pocket-sized powerful guidance: Keep writing! There will always be someone diving for pearls.