|Ah, the beckoning, the terror of the blank page.|
It’s curious. I’m frantically writing an article for an American magazine and for some reason I seem paralyzed by the process.
I can happily write in this space every day because I feel as if I’m among friends and it is so easy just to talk to you. Then there was the book. It was a long, solitary exercise in discipline and organization. The interviews were fun — I got up, got dressed and got out there — and I learned all sorts of great tricks and secrets. Most days the writing was not traumatic and I knew of course that I would have talented editors on the back end buffing everything up into bright, shiny prose.
|Imagine opening your favorite magazine and finding this.|
It’s been a while since I’ve written a magazine article. Even though I’ve written many pieces for other blogs, those posts always seemed easier because blogs are, for me, a conversation. A magazine article is more formal, I feel pressured to be clever, poised and highly polished, “up to its high standards” in other words.
Now that I’ve made this pitiful confession, it was simply to tell you that I must concentrate on my article and not, unfortunately, on having a real conversation with you today.
A demain my very, very, very dear friends.