Yesterday I sat myself down at the Grotto and attempted to write fiction for the first time in … many years. YEARS. I’ve blogged and written a number of essays during that time, but fiction? Not a word.

And wow. It was hard. It was NOT like riding a bicycle. Or maybe it was, because riding a bicycle can be very, very difficult for me. It was painful, and creaky, and I stared at every word in horror as it emerged.

I had an idea for a story. It was actually something of a challenge, where one of your friends says, “Hey, writer, why don’t you write a story about THIS?!” I have been mulling this idea for a long time, turning it over in my head, thinking of ways I might change it, embellish it, make the character and setting different. I thought about it for months and yesterday I finally felt ready. I had the time. I was in an awesome space.

I almost choked. It was hard. I squeezed out several paragraphs -maybe a page worth and pretty much was horrified by it all.

But it was a beginning. I’m using muscles that have almost atrophied into nothing. But I picked up a little two-ounce weight, and I started. I hope that next time might be a little bit easier.

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