The hardest thing in the world is to just sit down and write. I’d never really thought about that before. I’d always had some impetus for plunking down in front of the keyboard and making my fingers lead my brain into some semblance of language.
Then, grad school was complete, the book was published, and my kids were getting older too fast. There were always good excuses for doing this: I need to go play outside with the kids before the weather changed, or I had an early meeting so I needed to go to sleep an hour early. And on, and on.
It has been two years now, more or less, where my writing has been sparse, and largely directionless. I’m working on (or dreaming about) multiple projects at any given time. And then I’m usually good for a few pages before I get bored and start dreaming of the next tale. Even now, sitting here and writing this has been a struggle. My fingers don’t want to cooperate, and my brain is ready to jump ship and swim for the nearest island.
But that’s the thing. For years, when I had external forces driving me to write, I built up the habit of sitting at my computer and staring at the screen until I completed my assigned work. Now, it’s just my diminished willpower that nudges me slightly into feeling like I should probably go and do more of the thing I’m good at, and spend less time on things that are simply distractions. I suppose that this will serve as an auto-confession made in the public sphere, in the hope that even this simple act will help me to reestablish the habits I’ve endeavored so hard to create, and need to pick back up.
So, stay tuned, devoted readers. I am going to push myself to get back into writing shape, so that once again, I can let the stories I need to tell find their way to the page.