Finding excuses is easier than finding reasons. I have two daily hobbies that I enjoy doing, but do neither as often as I would like. I love to work out, and I love to write. Both leave a small sense of exhausted satisfaction after I am done. Horribly both leave an empty sense of failure if I skip either. The days I skip both, I toss and turn in bed, that confusing “I forgot something” feeling itching at the base of my skull. I wander aimlessly for that 2 AM cigarette outside and watch bats flitter around the streetlight, dive bombing bugs for a nightly snack.
I skip working out for a myriad of reasons, all which lead back to general laziness, so I won’t embarrass myself by going into detail in those.
Reasons for skipping writing is relatively simple. The simplicity of the excuses makes them even more maddening. The first reason is straight forward. I loathe planning. I really do. I would sometime rather insert the bamboo shoots beneath my own nails than follow a carefully laid out schedule. After 15 years of my wonderful wife, circling above everything I do, waiting to swoop down and use her claws to force me to adhere to the plan, and feasting on the remains of my stubborn carcass when I don’t, I have gotten
a little better. I really have. I even have plans laid out for the novel that I am struggling through. This problem is directly related to the main reason I find it hard to write daily.
I sit down to write but I don’t know what to write. It is not a writer’s block type of thing, more a which thing do I write? When seventeen separate stories are tap dancing on my frontal lobe, itching my fingers to translate those mental images to words for others. Yet, I start one story about a dyslexic unicorn that was gifted the spellbook of Merlin only to remember bits and pieces of Charles Wonderstopper’s galaxy spanning adventure, solving outer space mysteries with a sentient and omnipotent virus that is slowly killing him. The two merge in my brain and my fingers go from tap dancing a wonderful tale to a spastic zombie-like cavorting across the keyboard resulting in a hodge-podge cacophony of words that resemble a story a second grader might tell. Yeah, that is my issue. A rampant imagination that the most hardened cowboy would complain about taming.
How do I fix this over-active/reactive imagination? Schedules! See my first issue with writing daily. So, I succumb to the vicious circle of personal pain. I stare blankly at a screen, the ivory glow entrancing me to climb into my nothing box, fluff up the nothing pillows, and get wasted on imaginary whiskey. Or perhaps I grab one of the hundreds of notebooks, flip through scribbles of ideas, mere sentence fragments of an idea that sparked while driving and managed to end up slanting from the left margin to the page middle, or of sketches of skulls, demons, and melting flowers.
Even with all that, I still manage to write. Even now, I am writing. In this mindless drivel of readable thoughts I still ended up writing.
Writing is good, even this word vomit before you. It is good because my heart’s desire is to be a writer. And as a fellow blogger, Pavowski said, “Because I really want to be a writer. And if I’m not writing, then I’m not a writer.”
Truth hurts. Hurts me. I need to go do some curls then some more writing.
My 2 daily coppers are paid.