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Scribaphobia

They’re looking at me. I can’t write here, it’s too public.

What if they walk by, scan my page and laugh? It’s way too noisy here. What I need is a month at a cozy, wired cabin at a sparkling lake. Then I would write my masterpiece.

Right?

Yeah, right!

I’ve come to a trendy coffee shop with my laptop to write. That’s pretentious, isn’t it? Is my writing pretentious? When I went to college, it wasn’t for an MFA in Writing. I’ll never be a master Hemingway, gritty Hunter S. or prolific King—so why try? When I do find the motivation to write, I’m a bleeder. There is a painstaking struggle for every paragraph, every sentence and every word. I embrace when there’s instead a flowing splatter of inspired prose, but those times are few. How am I ever going to finish one whole book, let alone one whole chapter?

The blinking cursor on the white word processor page is too familiar. Today I’ve stared at it long enough.

I take a deep breath. I push all the fear mongering thoughts aside and begin to type.

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