When you love writing more than anything else, it’s all you think about. Or, at least, that’s how my brain works. From the moment I wake up in the morning to the moment I fall asleep at night, I’m either writing (which I’m lucky enough to do for a living in a marketing capacity) or stirring a rich stew of story ideas, sometimes at a simmer and others at a vigorous boil.
In short, writing is part of my DNA.
But, even though I’d be writing for the majority of my seven-hour workdays, I wasn’t able to get my hands on the keys outside of that commitment and make meaningful progress on my side projects. I’d turn ideas for characters or scenes or even entire plots over and over in my head, only to squirt out an insignificant amount of prose into one of my many in-progress documents. I began to get frustrated to the point that I considered myself a failure.
Why wasn’t I able to sit down and write the novel, screenplay, blog post, or another piece that’d been percolating for an eternity?
And why, at a time when I and everyone else was strongly discouraged, if not outright banned, from seeing each other in public, was I unable to get these ideas out of my system? Lack of social interactions with friends and family aside (which I did and still do miss dearly), this much is true: The amount…
