I always loved to write, in that precious unproven way where it was mostly about hating myself and occasionally writing the same derivative poem over and over again. This behavior has lasted well into adulthood.
April of 2009 I decided, rather arbitrarily, to try to write every day
(more) for a month. I did, and then tried to extend that for the rest of the year. I was in a relationship at the time. Lots of schmatz. I regret nothing.
It's a muscle that needs to be flexed, writing. See -- even now, it's only been a few days and it feels like swimming through syrup.
I'm trying to make a go of it as a freelance writer now, and even though it's still a good way off from being my career, I'm on my way. None of that would have been possible if I hadn't buckled down and made writing something I had to do every day.
Fast forward to today.
Today I was cooking eggs at the restaurant where I still earn most of my living. It was muggy, hot, and everyone was super bitchy. (Myself included.) Then towards the end of my shift I saw on my smartphone that an article I had recently written had just gone live. Suddenly working somewhere I really don't want to be was made more livable by knowing that somewhere else I existed as someone I want to be. Somewhere in the world there was the me that I'd prefer the world thought of when the world thinks of me, which it doesn't, really, but that's kind of its own blessing.
So yeah. Don't fuck around. We're all going to die before blind luck gets the job done. Trust me, I've tried. Doesn't work.
(less)
