Writing a Wrong

I actually use a computer to write this blog. I have no idea why I chose this picture.
I’m in the process of re-establishing my writing habit. That was one of the reasons I began my blog and committed to adding a post on a daily basis.

My perception of the writing process has changed as I’ve gotten older. I used to believe writing was driven by inspiration that struck without warning. If I wasn’t inspired there was no point even attempting to write.

Perhaps it is awareness of my own mortality, but I now know time is no longer an endless luxury for me.

If not now, when?

I no longer let an empty white rectangle and a blinking cursor on my computer screen intimidate me. Some days, words pour out, thoughts that were stirring inside my head for days if not longer, appearing almost as quickly as I can hit the keyboard.

Other days, I start typing and hope for the best. Or, on some days, for the “good enough”.

To classify something noble like writing as a “habit,” no different from taking the trash cans to the curb Sunday nights, would have made the younger me scoff derisively.

And yet, when I read about the authors I admire, without exception, their biographies include the characterization of writing as a job, something you have to do on a regular basis, day in and day out. That characterization is the one common thread that seems to connect all of the author’s stories.

I find myself circling back to the concept of “habits” frequently. When I think of my own journey, I feel there are two components. Discovery, i.e., a keener sense of self-awareness coupled with an action plan for change.

I feel like I’m hitting the discovery ball out of the park. Over the fence. I have so much fucking self-awareness it isn’t even funny.

Change, however, is a whole different beast. On a rational level I understand change will benefit me. On an emotional level, how I affect that change on a daily basis often seems like a herculean challenge.

Change takes time. Change is developing new habits while being mindful of the “natural” instincts that I’m intent on discarding.

When I stop and consider just how long I spent being the way I am, compared to the sliver of time I’ve been focused on becoming who I want to be, it could inspire paralysis.

I refuse to be intimidated. Just like the blank rectangle when I start writing each day. I know I just have to get it done.

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