I am writing a book. Well, future tense, I will be writing a book, once I get to the actual writing part of writing a book. I am in the beginning stages see, the planning part where I clear my desk, put all my pencils in a row, boot up my laptop, dust off my new desk calendar, decide I don’t have enough desk organizers (because a writer needs space) go out to buy desk organizers (and new stationary and pens while I’m at it – I’m a professional dahling, and we know you can never have enough pens) come back to discover it’s already four in the afternoon, whoops where did the time go, that’s a whole workday finished, well looks like I’m off for the evening, yeah, no big plans, just dinner with the wife, see ya in the mornin’ Smith!

And the next day, repeat (only this time replace desk organizers with staplers, because you can just never have enough staples am I right?) and before you know it I’m a writer who doesn’t write. But I’ve gotten darn good at organizing, and that’s a close second, right?

Isn’t this the age old conundrum, sell your soul for second best because what you really should be doing, want to be doing, is too scary to look at, a horrifying face behind the terrifying mask, a never ending shitstorm of “you’re not good enough’s” and “how could you even try’s”. Against this constant barrage you may hold only a tiny umbrella, one small consolation to shelter your fragile ego, this refuge, the refuge of work, work this minute, this very second, work despite your doubt, your fear, in spite of it even!

I want to write a book. I am writing a book. Here we go. Get to work.