I'm getting ready to feed the horses.
They need fed every morning, and every morning I dread it. Don't get me wrong, I love the horses, and I'd never let them go hungry.
But getting dressed, pulling on sweats, gloves, hat, coat and the pair of muddy boots from the day before, it all seems to be such a chore. Opening the door to the freezing cold, hefting 10 eighty- pound bales into the truck and over fences, breaking ice and draining hoses, it all seems too much.
But once I'm out there, I enjoy myself. The cold and hard work melt away. The horses snort welcome. Sundae, my daughter's old gymkhana horse, nickers low and soft. Our little pony filly, Flower, bucks and plays because she's so excited to have her breakfast. And, the horses in field race up to the fence to watch us load their meal.
What does any of this have to do with writing?
It's kind of the same.
Starting the computer, going into that barren, frozen tundra of my brain , it's difficult to make myself work. I dread stepping into the cold. The first words are like the mud outside, hard to go into.
But once I begin, the words are like the horses. Once I'm among them, I'm home. The hard part falls away, and the enjoyment take over. Characters welcome me back, and the fun part begins. I remember why I write. I love it.
I really should go feed....I can hear the horses calling.