I can sense it, sitting there, judging me, mocking me.
It taunts me every day. No good, it says.
I ignore it. Then I think about what it holds and it reveals itself to me further, insights and ideas bloom, a rough patch of ground speckled with wild flowers.
Then it changes.
From one day to the next, as the viewing angle skews, it morphs before me, pushing itself into new shapes, the end disappearing further beyond the blur of the middle.
I read. Books that are ‘Glorious, unexpected, superbly written’ (I know this because it says so on the front cover, the words inside echoing the declaration).
I read. Articles that are diligent and focused (I know this because the articles flow, words burble gently towards a well crafted conclusion).
I write. Sprawling blog posts that wriggle away from me. Fish out of water, desperate to breathe.
Still it calls to me. Luring me in, time and again.
Read me, it says. Write me, it says. Love me, it pleads.
I turn back towards it. I commit.
In reply it laughs at how easily I am swayed, and dances off into the spotlight of my fears.
In November I wrote a book. I created a sly troll that in all of its ugly beauty, the terrifying mess holds my gaze. I cannot not look.
I read. I write. I love. I commit.
And slowly – oh so creepingly, painfully, achingly, frustratingly, infuriatingly slowly – it bends to my will.