This is another day I don’t feel like writing. I’m tired, my arthritis is acting up, and I don’t want to do anything.
It’s 12° outside, at 10 a.m. I’ve had breakfast and my first cup of tea. I’ve spent 10 minutes ranting and raving about not having any cigarettes — it’s been over a week — and I’ve finally run out of excuses.
So I’m forcing myself to write. It might not be any good, and I might delete it as soon as it’s done, but as the old saying goes, “A writer writes.”
Even when she doesn’t feel like it. Even when she’s only doing it because she’s run out of excuses not to write.
“A writer writes.”
Yes, yes: I’ve read it so many times before. But this time I’ve taken it to heart and actually acted on it.
I started this piece at around 8:30, and I’ve been editing it, rewriting it, massaging it since then.
So here I am, 2 and a half hours into this piece, and I’m finally at peace with it.
Writing is a craft, a discipline, and one that demands constant practice. It’s like an exercise as well, in that the more you do it, the better you get at it.
Today is the day I’m forcing myself to write, despite myself.
Today I can finally call myself a writer.