I have learnt that whilst inspiration might give me the wings on which my idea might fly, it is best not to wait and write only when that happens. Those moments of éclat are rare. Most of the time, all I get is a gentle nudge. Writing happens because I turn up at the page to write (almost) every day. It happens because I know I can, and want to write.
The bad days are the ones when I sit poised over the keyboard, only for little demons of self-doubt to worm their way into my head. This might happen when I have read a marvellous piece of writing and feel I can’t measure up, or when I am tired and stressed and every little thing sets me on edge. Sometimes, it happens for no reason I can fathom. The voices taunt me, and I believe them. I begin to wonder why I even bother trying because there is no way I could ever write as well as writer X. If I don’t crawl under my desk and hide there, it is only because a tiny voice whispers back to me and reminds me that I don’t really want to write like writer X, but as myself in a voice that is my own, whatever that may sound like.
It is during these times that I feel it is most important to write. While I am experiencing these feelings, the last thing I want to do is the very thing that might save me. It is hard to stop the belligerent demons from looting and burning every ounce of creativity. I try to remind myself that I have the tool that will fell them swiftly, and I pick up the pen, if only just to speak about how pathetic my feelings are.