The first two rules of writing are these: apply butt to chair and just write. Last Saturday, I followed both rules and yet, two hours after having started with a workable idea and good head of steam, nothing came of it. I had a deadline to spur me on, something that often pushes me to produce good work. Not this time. Not even close. The pages aren't fit for lining the compost bucket. Really, they just aren't any good.

About now I'm supposed to say what a failure I am and complain that writer's block is worse than COVID. Sure, I felt some of that but not much and certainly not for long. I mean, give me a break. It's just writing.

Just writing?

Aren't I the guy who loves writing more than just about anything? Surely, I must be kidding.

But I'm not kidding. And don't call me Shirley.

It's just writing, just words on paper. Here's the thing: I'll write more words. I already have. In the week since Saturday, I've committed more than five thousand words to screen and page. Some of them have been just as terrible, but some are alright, and writing them has taken me to new places.

Places such as this.

Between paragraphs I sipped an espresso I made before sitting down to write. It's good espresso. Not great, just good. I'm too new to the craft to know what I'm doing yet. I've watched James Hoffman's espresso-making videos. He makes it look effortless because he's a gifted master and has done this sort of thing for years. I got my espresso machine a month ago and pulling great shots remains beyond me for the moment. Wait a couple months and I'll have a good espresso to offer.

James Hoffman is expert at this stuff, gifted after having practiced for decades. Being gifted and well-practiced are intertwined. He pulls scores of shots daily and has for years. Even if I was gifted at this — and maybe I'll turn out to be — I'll need years of practice to develop the gift. I'm too new to espresso to pull a great shot, so give me a break.

I'm talking to myself when I say give me a break. No one but me is as harsh a critic of my poor and novice attempts. No one else is so likely to tell me to give up.

Writers, especially those who aren't very practiced, are susceptible to the cruel voice within that says, give up, you have no gift. You and your writing will never measure up. Surely, there's no point in going on.

I respond this way: Stop calling me Shirley. And give me a break.

Last Saturday, I could feel that the writing wasn't going to work out, that at deadline I would find myself with a sad sheaf of pages unfit for sharing. I kept writing anyway. Some of that was obligation to deadline, but mostly it was faith in the practice of moving the pen, a practice I've maintained for decades. All that and I gave myself a break.

When it comes to espresso, I'm giving myself a break because I'm a novice, just beginning the practice. When it comes to writing, I give myself a break knowing that I'll write more and that I'm still a student of the craft, an eternal novice.

The voice within tells me to quit. It says I lack talent. I say, talent-schmalent.

Writing has less to do with talent than with applying butt to chair and just writing, going at it one day and coming back the next to go at it some more.

Whatever I draft today informs tomorrow's writing. This morning's shot of espresso has in it the taste of all I learned yesterday. Tomorrow's espresso may taste better, smooth with hints of caramel, or turn out bitter and awful. The writing could go either way too.

I had a good idea last Saturday but still haven't been able to write it. I'll try again but it may refuse to come together. There's a chance it's beyond my ability to write. Wouldn't that be a pisser? End of the freaking world, right?

Give me a break.