When I sat down today to write, I did not know what would pour from me. It has been weeks (months) since I last posted, and, largely, the thing on my mind was about how one of my most recent posts regarded my intention to be more regular. That was half the aim of the blog, afterall—to continue actively building writing in as a habit. It has been an interest of mine for a long while, something I’ve dedicated much study to, as well, yet I do not sit down to actually do the darn thing as often as I wished I did.
Each time I sit down to write a blog post, or go through the actual act of posting it, I feel a great sense of satisfaction. I enjoy writing these posts and I enjoy posting them, even if no one reads them. Likely in part because no one really reads them. So, it is on my mind—in neither a good nor a bad way—the fact that I have not been regularly posting.
I am not surprised by this turn of events—things picked up quite a bit at work and all of a sudden, my time and energy had new drains and became far more limited. I knew this season was coming, I anticipated a divestment of my energy from even my favorite and well-habited hobbies.
Yet, it interests me that writing went out the window so fully. Exercising, though it also took a hit, remained at the priority list in my free time. I made time to work out, despite my exhaustion. Writing, something I can do from a chair or couch or bed, fell so far to the wayside it’s a wonder I still considered myself a writer. Must a writer be regularly writing to call themselves such? Sometimes I think yes, sometimes I think no. Mostly, I think I call myself a writer because I have ideas to write about that I fully intend to get to at some point. But “some point” seldom comes. I await a great and perfect time in which I am simply writing always, finishing projects on the regular, achieving what I wish to achieve. Yet, I have not built enough discipline to truly sit down and write, whether I feel like it or not. The mental energy, I think, that writing takes is one of my greater hurdles; when I am tired after a long and hard day, the last thing I want to do is build and solve problems for fun. I want to rest. I want to turn my brain off for a while, save my thinking for what puts food on the table, since I know that project is vital and never-ending.
But, in a perfect world—just between you and me—writing is what would put money on the table. I would love to spend my days laying out the feelings of my heart and the desires that spur me and the fears that hinder me and have all THAT be the work that supports me.
Some days it feels like a pipe dream, some days I see people far less competent than me getting far more and far further. Most days there is a small voice in the back of my head whispering that if people knew all the thoughts in my head and the wishes in my heart, they would turn on me, cast me out and ridicule me. A little overblown, I think, but that little girl inside REALLY does not want to be laughed at, it seems. As if laughter is the enemy. As if she has not survived much worse before.
I don’t have an excuse for allowing writing to fall to the wayside. With exercise in particular, I know discipline is its own sort of muscle. One must work out whether they feel like it or not; the key is to not rely on motivation to work out, but to rely on the discipline one has trained by doing the damn thing day after day, whether one wanted to or not. I am proud of this muscle I’ve built. I have never had a day in which I regretted working out, never a day in which I cursed myself for building this habit, day in and day out. In fact, it is one of my favorite things about myself—my determination, my discipline, my ability to accomplish what I set my mind to.
I am tired of making excuses for myself. It is no longer okay with me that I have this un-identified time in which I will begin to really commit to the things I want to do. Waiting for that time to arrive is silly and wasteful. Every day is a gift—really and truly—and I cannot squander it. Writing is a muscle I want to grow, and discipline for writing along with it. It is time.
Every day in June will get 200 of my words, at minimum. Glimmers from the day, thoughts on my mind, pieces of June I want to remember. Building discipline, building the practice. Daily work for a future I want.