Problem now is that three and a half days later, the little monster has outgrown the one and a half page I thought it would be, pushing three and still going, and it's scaring the shit out of me. I've never written anything that long and it comes easily enough --close to a page a day-- that I'm beginning to suspect it will be the worst crap I've ever come up with when I'm done writing. I'm trying to reassure myself that it is because of all those images I've been holding inside finally finding an outlet, but clearly it's not working. Writing doesn't come natural to me, never has; I have to slave and bleed for it and that's a concrete fact I had to come to terms with a long time ago. And that's where I panic.
Why can't I be happy that, even if the outcome is not up to the requestor's expectations, for the first time I'm writing something with a beginning, a middle and an end? A story that I know in advance how it's going to play out and why? Why am I beating myself for finally having an inspiration and running with it?
::pulls hair in frustration::