Rules swarmed like wasps in my mind. They waited, buzzing, at the places where words came from. When a stream of words was beginning to join up, they attacked. The bit and stung and scared the words away.
I ground to a halt. At first I didn’t realise what was stifling my writing. The flow of words was blocked, and I didn’t know what was wrong. It was quite distressing. I knew what was happening in the book, what I was suppose to be writing, so I knew it wasn’t writers’ block. And it wasn’t just the book that was affected; it was everything. Even this baby blog was deprived of posts.
It had never happened to me before-not being able to write. A few days ago I realised what my problem was (...is). I knew too much about what was expected of a book, and I assumed I would fail to meet, and surpass, those great expectations.
I wrote the first without difficulty because I knew nothing of the rules and requirements that it would have to follow and meet. If someone had told me that I must watch out for ‘voice’ and ‘point of view’ and ‘show don’t tell’, that I had to make sure each sentence was stellar and each word had a purpose, I would have scoffed.
‘You can’t confine writing like that,’ I would have said.
And I would have been right. You can’t. You shouldn’t try. It’s bad.
Feck the rules.