In the newest attempt at novel writing, I came to a bumpy spot. Not bumpy because of difficulty... but bumpy because I didn't want to write it.
The story absolutely had to go a certain way. But I didn't want to write it. The subject matter was a bit delicate, and well, I just didn't want to do it.
So much in fact that it took me almost a week to get the guts to write it out.
As I was writing it, I nearly chickened out. I literally paused, my hands over the keyboard, and almost, ALMOST made it different.
But I was brave. I swallowed my fears, and I wrote it.
It was the right move. What's strange to me is how personal it felt, writing that tidbit. I just can't describe it, but it was a challenge.
This being-a-writer-thing is weird. And kind of hard. And good.