I hate planning. I love planning to plan.
What sense does that make?
You* cannot understand unless you can picture perfect scenes in your head; unless you can capture stories from beginning to end exquisitely in your mind's eye such that you're convinced of their fundamental beauty.
And you've moved some of them from thought to some kind of action, sometimes working steadily and sometimes in a gale-force rush, while others dwell in a rotating file of jokes and ramblings you share with anyone who'd care to listen.
And you know you want them all out in the world, speaking for you. And you know HOW you would go about doing that, so clearly that the anticipated rhythm of steady work feels just as awe-inspiring as those stories that seem so right in your head that they may as well already have been written.
They're not. Mine aren't either. Here's what I'm trying.