I love writing, it’s what I think about, dream about, fantasize about. My head is chock-a-block with long stories and one-sentence ideas and pictures made of words and the beginning of some novel and the end of another. And yet, I spend 400 percent more time thinking about writing than actually, well, writing. Does this happen to you? I can’t imagine Picasso yapping on about how a bunch of sunflowers would make a rad painting. Or Oscar Pistorius lying on the couch, eating Nik Naks, pondering running at the speed of a cheetah.
‘Just Do It’. Nike said it first, or at least the loudest. And maybe they’ve been right all along. But why does it seem so impossible? What cruel twist of fate makes the act of doing something that brings you joy, feel so frightening? As if you are standing, in your Lady gaga meat dress, in front of a one-eyed, salivating rottweiler, but you have no choice, because that meat dress makes you feel alive and happy and Here.
I have no conclusion, dear ameezing reader. No neat rounding up and boomerang-ing back to Picasso and Nik Naks. Just a worded throwing up of hands at my myself. A literary slap in the face. And ass. To get moving.
Doing what you love even though it terrifies you: Ameezing.
ameezing 