Tell me if this has ever happened to you.
You create an intention to commit to daily writing practice or that bigger project that you swore would be your priority.
You take off like a jack rabbit for a few weeks or even a few months, but then you start to drift away.
You skip one day, and you feel terrible, and then you skip another.
You pledge to start again tomorrow, and this time, you will be diligent.
But it’s like swearing to go on a diet. There are too many tomorrows.
Soon, a week has gone by or maybe two.
Eventually, you get back to writing, but you still feel like you blew it.
Your inner mean girl has taken over. Even though you are writing now, she stands in judgement.
She tells you it’s too late. She tells you not to bother.
I’m here to tell you that she’s a liar.
DO NOT LISTEN TO HER.
You are doing fine. You are doing better than fine.
You are a fucking warrior.
Despite the effort iT takes to bring yourself back to the page, compounded by the shit show of American politics in the time of pandemic, you are here.
You are writing.
It’s like meditation.
You sit down with the intention to focus on your breath, and inevitably, you get distracted. You have so much on your mind.
Instead of focusing your breath, you’re thinking about lunch or reviewing some frightening statistic you heard on the news.
But then you wake up. You catch yourself and return to the breath and to the present moment.
The waking and returning are cause for celebration.
Same goes for writing.
YOU CELEBRATE THAT YOU ARE WRITING AGAIN.
And the reward is the way you feel when your hand hits the page.
You are doing what you are meant to be doing.
You have come home.
It is a daily pilgrimage, an effort you will make over and over again.
And it always brings relief.
Because writing is your true home.
It is your path and your destination.
