As difficult as it is to get into a writing rhythm these days, it stands to reason I become irritated when I have to bring that momentum to a screeching halt because of other obligations. Nearly a thousand words came effortlessly this morning, as I began yet another version of a book I've started countless times over the past eight years. I believe my teeth were clenched for half the day with frustration.
Since moving I have been unsuccessful in finding both the mindset and the appropriate environment to write well. Amidst the daily routine, fun, and heartaches, a pit of irritated emotions has fought for my attention. If I am a writer, then clearly I have been a very lazy and unproductive one these past few months. And I am - to the very core, a writer.
How is it then that the very thing I want to be, the thing I want to do most in life is the one thing I cannot seem to carve out dedicated time for? It's pathetic and inexcusable. Time is passing by at an alarming rate and soon enough I will wake up 80 years old. How sad if I reach that age never having accomplished the one thing I wanted to do for most of my life? Something has got to change.
No comments:
Post a Comment