Several times I have tried to rekindle the flame I felt while writing. As if what I was writing would be some new mega-hit book series. Every time I start out strong, then stumble a bit and then give up. I’m starting to believe it is my own self-doubt getting in the way. Why should I try? I’ll never be as great as Stephen King, Anne Rice, or my idol Anne McCaffrey. So why should I waste my time twiddling away at the keyboard writing something that will probably only be read by my mother?
Because it is my story.
I may not have the wit, the vocabulary, or even the education of those other amazing writers, but I have my own imagination. It’s kept me company when kids at school thought I was too weird to befriend, it’s fed me the most amazing yet sometimes terrifying dreams as I slept, and it so often plays movies seen by no other but me as I sit and stare at a wall or out the window. My stories, my imagination, I think that's worth not giving up on.
So no matter how many times I have to start again, or pick up the red pen once more, or force myself to the keyboard for a measly 500 words a day, I will continue on. Come migraine or fibro fog, I will continue my story, and someday, I’ll share it with the world.