Tonight is one of those nights where I really hate writing. As I posted on an earlier post, I am writing a short story about a wedding cake and how it ended up in the middle of the road. I started that story, and I’ve added a few more paragraphs tonight. It is coming along, trudging along. I have an idea of where to go, and as I write tonight, what I wrote cements the idea in place.

I have direction, I have an idea, I have an ending, yet, I find it difficult to write. I have no idea why. A friend just told me to sit down and write. Just write. I tried and nothing comes. My fingers type words and words and my little cursor goes backwards, erasing them all. The cursor adds more and more and more are deleted before it even reaches the page. I’m editing as I go, and that is bad news.

In posting this entry, I postpone completing my story. I guess for me, it is the fear of what my story means. I guess it is my fear of not having the right to write the story I’m writing. Once I finish, if I finish, you will understand.

Another aspect of my block is the structure of the piece. I wrote some good things and I don’t know how to place them. Different yet similar ideas refusing to melt into one. I guess I just need to punch the story out and focus on structure later.

I do not see the big picture. I do not know where things should go. I’m just writing and writing, trying to tie everything together, to make sense, and it just seems my words don’t make sense. I’ve lost my train of thought, yet that train is still running on the tracks that I lay out for it.

Maybe I feel constrained, writing the story in the manner and way that I thought of weeks before. Maybe I need to just write and not focus on the story that I’ve planned weeks ago. If that is the case, then all I’ve written is for nothing for it is one story. Ahh, damn the confusion.

It’s like painting in my painting class, frustrated with the abstracts, the small picture while I just want to paint the larger picture. Painting little pieces of a master’s painting prevents me from appreciating the painting I’m doing. It doesn’t look good. It doesn’t look like the masterwork. Yet, it is supposed to be my interpretation of the work.

I guess I just don’t see what I want and what is needed of me. I’m just confused. I’m worried about it not becoming the perfection that is in my head. The wonderful story that I want to tell. I’ve captured the essence, but not the beauty.

I curse writing. Damn you.