Do I like the idea of writing better than the actual writing?

If I don’t move forward—if I’m always working on it, it’s always in progress—then “my book” can be forever preserved as a future endeavor. It’s this untainted dream. This thing I will do.

Do I like the idea of writing better than the actual writing? The way so many people like the idea of dogs better than the flesh-and-blood creatures themselves? I see this all the time; “all dogs like me!” a stranger coos as they reach for Scout’s face despite me saying she’d rather not be touched; “I hate when he barks/chases/chews/insert other natural canine behavior here” complains an owner who isn’t providing their companion with adequate fulfillment; “they’re nanny dogs” a well intentioned yet misguided social media commenter proclaims about blocky-headed breeds.

I might do the same thing with my words. “My first draft is set for revisions” I announce with excitement then months later still haven’t refined it into a manuscript I’m comfortable with other people reading; I’ve compiled a spreadsheet of possible literary agents but always find a reason to put off contacting any of them (“I’m just not ready” starts to sound like “I’ll never be ready”); I spend more time overthinking if I’m qualified to write a book than actually attempting to complete said book.

The thing is, I do love writing. I write every day and don’t remember a time where I was free of the compulsion. I’d have been single-digits years old, I suppose—before I read the Warriors series by Erin Hunter, before I got sucked into roleplaying on Neopets, before I had my own “blog” (self-coded! aren’t I so cool?) in middle school.