I want to write.

It’s not a sharp strike of lightening to my mind that makes my fingers twitch with desire to fly across the keyboard. I think of it as something that’s always in my veins.

That said, there are moments when the feeling surges, and I start smiling. Thoughts begin spilling over, and the metaphorical waterwheel in my brain starts turning. I get very giddy when this happens; if I’m wearing socks, sliding around the room is inevitable.

But when I sit down, I feel so tired.

I am physically exhausted by the time I officially declare my “writing session” over. Sometimes I write paragraphs, others only a few sentences.

I have trouble finding a rhythm that carries me to the end of whatever inspiration I’ve unlocked.

It is incredibly frustrating, because I am finally daydreaming about my own characters. I’m so excited to be thinking about worlds I create, but then I sit down and can’t keep my eyes open.

I want to write about superheroes that question their values. I want to write about two potential lovers trying to find their footing as they travel through space. I want to write about characters who carry pieces of my beliefs.

No amount of coffee helps. I still drink the warmth down and tell myself it gets me through the morning, but on the weekend, I will drink multiple cups throughout the day and feel no effect.
But there are those wonderful instances when my writing flows out of me. They are so extraordinary, those times when I feel connected to the words appearing on my Word doc.

And that’s why I keep trying. I’ll make myself a cup of tea and tear through my house’s sweetener in the course of a few days because I live to create streams of words that will potentially (hopefully) become rivers.

With that said, I’m gonna go to bed, and I’m going to try again tomorrow.