What to write, what to write. I never feel like I have the words. Inside I have all this stuff waiting to burst out, to spill onto the page. Just like that description though, what ends up coming out more resembles the random expulsions of the nauseous than heartfelt and beautifully crafted prose. I want to write sonnets and soliloquies, but I get all hung up on how you actually spell soliloquy. I want to craft new worlds and bring to life complex characters, but I get lost in over-complicated sentences with clauses that subordinate my meaning.
I think the answer is to write, to throw the words on the page like I’m emptying a jigsaw box and hope I’ll be able to arrange them into the picture I see in my head. Right now though, I feel like I’m searching for the corner pieces, unable to begin.