It's been 6+ weeks since I pondered my writing self with more undivided attention than I ever imagined being comfortable with. After 12 days of solitude, self-care, and deep dives into the soul while languishing in the comfort of this beautiful spot in Washington state...
...I felt some clear certainty about a number of things in my life, but was still fairly wobbly about the writing. Now it is November 1. Forty-seven days post Whidbey Island.
Today - finally - is the day.
It's the day to believe I still have a voice in this world and a story worth telling and some words somewhere in the cellar of my being with which to speak-and-tell. It's the day to acknowledge there might be bigger things to do in the world than sit at this desk and puzzle over syntax and character development, timelines and grammar technicalities. There absolutely are much bigger things to do, but they are not mine.
It's the day to stop crying about the wasteland of the last five years, during which I mourned and moped and muddled through day upon day, creating nothing more than a grocery list. It's the day to keep all the broken promises to my Muse, sit my procrastinating ass down on this yoga ball, and get to work.
It's the day to write.
My goal is 2000 words a day. And for the record, it's 4:07 PM and these are the first 240 to make it out of my brain and onto a page. Nothing too inspiring about that. But the kitchen is clean, the patio leaves swept up, a load of laundry sloshing around in the washing machine. I've ordered a new bedspread, planned a weekend birthday celebration, and tried new techniques for curling my hair. That last one was the wake up call: The stalling is over.
It's November 1. Time to write.
I feel better already.
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