There’s nobody looking over my shoulder. I’m not up on a stage. There is no audience listening. Nobody is waiting to read this. I have no deadline. Nobody will ever read this.

That should equate to freedom, shouldn’t it? No restriction, just creation. I can write whatever I want. About anything I want. Anything at all. Ideas streaming from my fountaining brain, rushing down my arms and through my fingers. Pouring into the keyboard. A deluge of delights and diversions.

So why do I freeze? Why can’t I think of anything? Where did all those great little stories go when I wasn’t looking? They used to crowd around me, jumping up and down gabbling for attention whenever I didn’t have the time to write, or wasn’t near a keyboard, paper, pen.

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