My weekly writing afternoon at Donut Central today. Parasites on the TV. Discussions of mysterious connective tissue diseases at the table next to me. Hot desolate landscapes in my mind. What more could anyone desire?
I’ve been struggling a bit lately with fitting writing into my day. Sometimes it’s a question of having a busy schedule, but right now I think it’s indicative of a confidence problem. After all, if I’m optimistic, it’s easy. I’m writing toward a goal, toward publication, toward being a writer. Those are nice solid things.
But when the optimism’s gone? Then all I’m doing is using up time that could be better spent on more productive things.
I’m blessed with a supportive partner, one who insists that writing makes me a better person. It’s true. Writing helps me organize my world in some intangible and essential way. That, in and of itself, should be reason enough to write. The rest is window dressing.
Sometimes that’s easy to believe. Other times…not so much. It’s a question of finding balance, of accepting the moment, the experience, of reminding myself of the pure pleasure of waking up with a story to tell. That should be why I write, that should be why I challenge myself to do more, to try harder.
Unfortunately, knowing and accepting are two different things. In this issue, as in all others, I need to be content with being a work in progress.