Does writing turn you on? Do you leer at the inviting page like the old eyes of a lecher on a sunny day at the beach? Does the idea of creating another world make you ache down to your very core? Like an adolescent who just discovered sex? Does it make you want to attack and maul and roll in the sheets until you’re completely spent?
Perhaps the notion of massaging a passage of prose tantalizes like an unexpected view of Victorian leg. Teases and tickles like a fan dance. Curls your fancies like the lightest of whispers encircling your ear.
Calls for submissions, contests, submission guidelines. That can take it out of you. It’s easy to drink the poison. So easy to succumb to distraction. Sure.
If you’re truly gifted, if your existence is defined by that creative muse in your gut, you might forget your privileges. You’re different from everyone else, for better or for worse. Acknowledgement is the thing; judgement is inconsequential. You can make things up. You invent. You see. You play.
Don’t lose that. Don’t ever let that go. Go for your best work. Try to create the work you were born to create. Whether you fondle it, caress it or even brutalize it. Throw up on the page, tickle it, dazzle it, splash it, cover it.
Let it go, let it rip. Don’t hold back. Don’t hold yourself back. You owe yourself nothing less.