I don’t know what to write about.

My friend is pushing me to continue my blog, to keep writing, because she says I can write. Normally, I push back when I’m pushed. But this is exactly what I need.

The trouble is, I don’t know what to write about.

I think the goal of continuing the blog is that once I continue the blog, maybe I’ll keep going. Maybe I’ll finally write the novel I’ve been saying my whole life I’ll write.

I’ve been writing since I was a child. Even in elementary school, we had young authors’ conferences in the city, and participation was option. I always participated.

One year, I wrote a story about a pet horse–or was it a pet unicorn?–that went missing then was found. Another year, I wrote about girls going into a haunted house and became trapped there forever.

Since high school, I’ve had the same idea for a novel. It’s begging to be written. But I still haven’t written it. And why not? I don’t know.

In college, our professor would bring in writers. One of them, I can’t remember which at the moment–and heck, it might have been my professor himself–said that they’d had a similar situation to where they finally had to write it. And it turned out to be complete crap. But finally, they’d written it, so they could turn away and move on.

Am I afraid that’s what will happen to me? That the story that’s played in my head for more than six years now–well, the gist, at least, because obviously through six years there’s been some development–will turn out to be complete crap? And all this time spend thinking about this story will have been a waste? Probably. But all I’m doing right now is delaying the inevitable. Eventually, this story will make its way out. And it may be crap, but I’ll never know until I do it.

Now, someone, make me do it.

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