Oh, William Wordsworth.
“Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart,” said he. And my, how I have tried. But honestly? The breathings of my heart are so tangled. I can extract them, I can lay them upon the paper, but they are, so truly, a jumbled mess that no rational human mind can straighten and make sense of.
This shall take some work, dear sir, before these breathings are worthy of consumption.
Every great something had a beginning; probably many great somethings began with a tangled mess of heart and soul and dreams and goals. Taking the first step towards ironing them out to a recognizable and relatable form is much more difficult than we writer folks let on.
Or perhaps it’s just me.