A writer writes, or at least that's what they say. But this writer has hardly written in years, except for work, and I'm not counting that. I have told myself that everything gets in the way: work, laundry, childcare, exhaustion. You name it, it prevents me from writing. Now I realize that the only thing that prevents me from writing is me. I stand in the way of my own success, and by success I simply mean the act of writing itself. Not getting anything published. If I can get myself to write every day for a year, then I figure a fire will be lit...one that will keep burning with regular tending.
A few unrelated incidents struck the match. Someone died. I've been thinking about doing a 365 project, but the only one I can imagine involves words. One of my boys returned to school after being homeschooled for over two years. I'm reading Half Broke Horses, a pretty inspirational little biographical novel. And I am attempting to recover from a pretty severe state of codependency, so I am trying to make some things happen -- things I can actually make happen.
What I can do is gather words. Arrange them. Say a few things. Write some poems. Develop some characters. Start some stories. See what wants to burn a little brighter.
What I can do is discipline myself. So here I am. Ready to write some words and inspire myself, if no one else. Ready to start some fires.
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