Writing is frustrating at times. At times. Mostly it is pleasant work, with the fingers doing most of the thinking, and Word marking the errors as unfamiliar words (intentional and unintentional) appear upon the screen. But there are times when it is terribly hard.
    Sometimes there is too much white space below my typed words, white space that I feel obligated to fill with something meaningful. "Here is where I tug at the heart strings," "Here is where my character learns the dark secret of his past." Nope. The story does not ask for it yet. Later. Much later. After you fill more pages with ruminations.
    There, I hesitate. What do I have to say? What can I say that is worth anything to anyone? Why should they read me? Hello, frustration, so nice to meet you.
    It is said that an author must have a measure of arrogance. Why else write and assume folks will pay to read your ideas? I have been called arrogant at times (through no fault of my own). I am not a boastful person. I am quiet, and often secluded in my thoughts. But I have a feeling that what I can tell others is important. This blog is important. This sentence is important. My readers are permitted more of me than I give them in my stories. They should have my hopes and dreams, my fears and joys. They should have my frustrations. It is what they are owed for following me, for trusting in me.
    Frustration: Today I cleaned my gutters. It is fall, they needed cleaning. But as I was perched on my roof I did not feel that I was cleaning the gutters out of need; I felt I was cleaning them in order to not write. I have experienced this before. The dishes need washing, the floor vacuumed, that chair needs to be moved into the other room. And all this right when I sit down and prepare myself to work on a story. I know the things can wait, and yet the need to do them is almost unbearable. So I do them, telling myself that after everything is neat and tidy I will write.
    Fast forward to when everything is neat and tidy. I am in my chair, the project opened on my screen. My fingers on the keyboard. Ah! I have nothing to say...
    Well, I could take the dogs for a ride, clear my head a bit. There is a ball game on, I could watch it, wait for inspiration to strike.
    No! You must press the keys, in whatever order you must.
    So I write, frustrated that so much is left to do, frustrated that I don't have the easy wash of inspiration magically granting me the perfection words.
    Then I remember the readers. There are those who've given me a grant of confidence, who've written me e-mails that are both heart-warming and beautiful. So I write, for them, and for all those who will follow me. It is for those who love my stories, and will come to love them, that I write. Frustration is a familiar foe, one I will be forced to spar with time and again. But armed with my growing fanbase, I will forever be prepared to produce wonderful tales that will make me proud, and will make the readers excited to follow me.
    So thank you for giving me the means to not rake leaves, and not give the dogs a bath.