Man, getting back to writing can be hard.
It’s a fits and starts sort of thing. I should be better about making it a priority. I should get up earlier. I should find more balance between that and my other endeavors.
(I’m best at reading. My reading nearly always gets done. Then comes yoga.)
I should probably stop using the word “should” in reference to my writing. It trips me up. It clogs the works. There is too much sense of should. Should write every day. Should send work out more consistently. Should write more serious, more ambitious stories.
That last one is a fucking doozy.
I bring “should” to very little else I do, but I always do with writing. I haven’t written consistently since 2013. Fits and starts. A little project here, a serial there. (Channillo’s going relatively well–that counts for something.) I overthink it. I worry.
I’ll adjust my expectations. Can’t find a groove if you don’t bother to look for it. Not think at all about what other people–even people who like me and my writing, maybe especially them–want to read. Not think at all about publications or submissions or rejections or acceptances or expectations.
Deadlines used to motivate me. Now I just watch them slide past. You let one go and they all go. It’s too easy not to write. It is the easiest thing. But it’s unpleasant, too, like when you stay home for too long. You have to go out and breathe the air and feel the sun. You have to write.
Not that you should–you must, you need.
It’s pretentious to complain about how hard writing is. It’s not hard to write. It’s hard to get to writing. It’s hard to make space. Except you do make space. Just a little space. And a little more.
And you write.