There’s something wonderful and terrifying about starting a new story.

Extra terrifying if you’re working in a genre where the nerds will kill you if you desecrate their sacred rites but will not give you the time of day if you don’t make something new.

Also corpses. Thankfully not mine. This time.

In case you’re confused, I started writing a new short story last night. Around midnight, yes. Per usual. It should be gothic horror/hard science fiction, but it’s not yet, because it’s not much of anything yet aside from a blob of words on a page.

It’s always harder for me to write if it’s a story I need to finish. Not a story that’s going to be published right away perhaps, but a story that slams itself against the walls of my skull demanding to be let out. This one has been demanding for a few weeks at least.

There’s also the constant argument between the voices in my head that I am brilliant and that I am writing hackneyed, self-indulgent fanfiction.

Yeah. My inner editor has some cruelty to her.

But aside from all the feelings that I’m about to plunge off a cliff into a pile of pillows and will only be coaxed out by my violin/ice cream…

I’m writing a new story.

And there’s something magical about it. When I manage to breathe, to let it happen, it’s one of those stories that just wants to tell itself. I don’t know if anyone else experiences this, but often as a writer I don’t feel that I’m writing. It’s more like being a stenographer. The characters start telling me the story themselves. All I have to do is keep up.

I love writing. It’s so scary. And so beautiful.