One Word At A Time

4 03 2013

I am slightly obsessed with yarn. I love selecting yarn for new crochet projects, the abundance of colors available. I have an image in my mind of what that skein of yarn will become. While I am looking, I touch each different weight and brand, anticipating the feel of the yarn running through my fingers as I work. However, it usually takes me a few weeks after I have bought the yarn to actually start the project.


I think sometimes, I get so caught up in the dream and the anticipation, that actually starting a project is overwhelming to me. That beginning chain is next to nothing compared to what the finished project will look like. What if I get halfway through and notice I have made a mistake? What if it is really too hard a pattern? I’m not really as good at it as other people are. I just kind of play at it.  (Yes, I really do think these things sometimes, foolish as it may be.)

I let myself get all worked up about things. Then, I convince myself that it doesn’t matter if my project comes out perfectly. No one is paying me for it. I really am just doing it because I enjoy it.

And how does this relate to writing?

I am also obsessed with notebooks and pens. I have a pile of them on my desk at the moment. When I buy them, I have every intention of filling them with beautiful words. They will one day be journal entries, stories, and novels. I open them and stare at the blank pages. I imagine all the things that they could hold. Then, I read someone else’s work and start to doubt my skill as a writer. There are so many who can say it better. I want to be more serious, but really, am I just playing at this?

And then I have to remind myself. I have something to say, and I am the only one who can say it. These words won’t come out perfectly. There is always room for improvement. I am doing this because I love it and couldn’t imagine my life without it.

I write that first word. Then, I am ending that first sentence. Before I know it, that first string of words becomes something wonderful and more magnificent than that first sentence can ever be on it’s own. It becomes a finished piece, and I start dreaming about the next one.


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