Maintaining a blog full-time can be a bit stressful, and this stress can sometimes have a restricting effect on your writing. There’s the pressure to produce top content every time you write; there’s the pressure of appealing to your audience; there’s the pressure of always having an opinion or keeping up with industry news. r
Procrastination is usually a symptom of some other problem: poor preparation, perfectionism, a fear of failure or rejection, or just a simple lack of motivation and interest. r
When you’re nine years old, Aunt Jessie presses her powdered face to yours and whispers, “Now don’t you ever tell anyone what you saw. Your mother would just die.”
This is a scary thing to a child—to be entrusted with a secret that has so much power if could kill someone. Aunt Jessie probably didn’t mean to scare you like that, but words have power. Silence in the face of wrong has power. And when we begin to write our memoirs, we can get caught up in the webs of the past. Sometimes these webs are so tangled that we stop writing. r
Since I write for a number of blogs, I often get questions from would-be writers. Something which crops up frequently is a lack of confidence. Many (surprisingly good) writers never send pieces to an editor, or agonise over every post they write on their own blog. r
In many situations in life – especially within a company or within a family – co-operation is a much more powerful principle than competition.
We all have a competitive instinct or drive, though, and many games make the most of this to ramp up the level of fun, excitement and involvement. (Sports, multi-player computer games, and board games all have “winners” and “losers”.)
As well as enjoying being competitive in game and play situations, we can use our natural competitive bent to give ourselves an edge when we’re trying to make gains in our personal life. r
Before I began to write, I didn’t fully understand the effects of the past on the present. Instead, for years, the past appeared in my mind’s eye like faded black-and-white photographs, in which no one, especially me, seemed to be fully alive. r
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