My knuckle is healing. Finally. I can now type with both hands and all 10 of my digits fairly well.
Being in a cast put a huge damper on my interest in writing. And writing with a pen on paper, which used to be my favorite thing and I could easily do because I'm left handed, is just too slow and sloppy and far too easy to cheat on.
Now I'm out of excuses to write (type) and I'm finding that I have to force myself to do it.
When I drive around in my vehicle (which is my preferred place to think - I guess because it's both passive and active, so I can focus and yet not be stagnant) and I think about what I want to do with this next phase of my life, I keep coming back to writing. Being an author. A real one. So I'm edging closer and closer to this idea of creating something written. Something real. A book.
Why is this so difficult? If I want it so bad, why am I putting it off with every available excuse?
Writing offers me all the things I want: flexibility and freedom, a creative outlet, and use of my talent. It might actually offer me a source of income too, if in fact I can count on writing being a talent.
1,000 words is a ton of words. I checked it out. Writing assignments are really what I need. Like, on a set schedule. And getting up early to write might be the best option for me...less distractions and a nice healthy dose of pressure to get the words down before the littles rouse for breakfast. Plus I'm pretty clear headed in the morning.
So instead of writing about writing, I will write. Present tense. I am writing a book. Piece by 1,000 word piece.
No comments:
Post a Comment