What Am I Waiting For?

Some part of my brain seems to think I need permission to start writing. Perhaps I'm waiting for some god-like voice in my head, "writing to commence in five, four, three, two, one." Only then will the flood gates open and best sellers will start to pour from my fingers as if I were Nora Roberts with a penis. Or maybe a young James Patterson, except he cheats and uses co-authors to write his first drafts.

Or perhaps I'm waiting for some published writer to approach me, place his hand on my shoulder, and tell me, "You are ready. I'm retiring and the world needs you to take my place." Although most writers seem to die rather than retire, but you could use the same sort of scenario with me being summoned to said writers deathbed.

One way or another, I'm waiting for something that, in all likely hood, is never going to happen. The only person I really need permission from is myself. I have to let all these mental blocks go and just start writing. Sounds easy, doesn't it? Hell, I don't know, maybe it is. But so far I'm still on the first word of the first sentence of the first paragraph of the first page. So far I have, "The". Not a bad start I guess. However I'm thinking of changing it to, "A". But it doesn't have quite the same ring to it.

I have to think the actual writing will begin at some point. The fact that I even have a blog in a step in the right direction. Mostly I'm just telling myself shit I already know, but it's certainly better than staring at that blinking cursor mocking me from one space away from my blessed "The".