My goal of writing in the morning was thwarted by technical difficulties and a two-hour delay at school. (I always try to cram too much into the two-hour delay days, starting with extra sleep.)
I want to write about my dog, but not when I'm in this mood.
I need to write about a damaged friendship, but I'm not quite ready.
I guess I'll go with the idea that I'm writing something, anything, for the third day in a row, and that's progress toward the goal I set for myself. For the first thirty years of my life, I believed I was a writer. Ironically, once I became an English teacher, that stopped.
Part of it was because my mom died that year, and I lost my voice for a while.
Part of it was because I was (am still!) terrified about being judged because of my writing. Somehow, because of my chosen profession, I feel like everything must be perfect, and perfectionism turns into procrastination too often for me. Some of it is real, but I think much of it is pressure I put on myself.
If nothing else, I did sit down for the past 15 minutes to write. And now I'll post it on