Deb B has blogged a fabulous rant about not being a writer, but about being human, accepting that your human and that you like to write. How this shift in attititude can take some of the against out of the writing process.

I like the concept.

I'm afraid I'm an angst-ridden wanna be writer (see I'm not even capable of admitting I'm a writer). Occassionally I write a story that flows onto the page. In the moment of creation I love what I'm doing.

Most of the time I slog it out. Words on paper double and triple crossed out, editted and re-editted (and still lacking in any grammatical sense). I'm slogging at the moment - trying to get this damn story I'm working on finished for tomorrow so I can put it up to Thorbies. It's fighting. It lulled me into a false sense of security in the early days. The opening paragraphs leaping gleefully onto the page. Closing scenes coming to mind with simple clarity. Then the middle dug its heels in - went on strike - stayed off the page.

So now I've got a lovely beginning, a middle which is meant to raise issues (if only I could work out what the hell they are) and an end which sits sadly on its own drawing nothing together. I've had five hours sleep (overthinking the story) and I'm meant to work a full day today, go to the gym tonight and then make this damn sucker work so I can post it tomorrow.

Why do I do it?

How could I not.