It is hard to make writing a habit. It is hard to finish something you start – to give a story the end it deserves. I am rusty and out of practice; out of the habit and the feel. I don’t even know where to start. I have spent years with pages and pages of unfinished poems and short stories stuffed in my draws – ideas idly circling like dark crows in my head. The last time I really tried was a year ago. I started writing a story in my favourite red journal. I was diligent. It did not last. Fear is a persistent and loyal companion – my companion. I need to finish at least one.
I never thought it would be this hard.