This morning I woke my daughter from her peaceful slumber (ha!!! payback!) to change her, dress her, feed her, and walk her two blocks down our street to our babysitter's house. On these days, which are still blessedly few and far between, the hours spin away like whirling dervishes. I throw all of my energy into the tasks that are almost impossible to accomplish with a tiny human being who needs nearly constant attention and feeding. (Time check: I have roughly 2 hours remaining until I need to go pick her up. Hurry, hurry.) Let's check this off the list.
I hate to think of my writing as a tick on my to do list but it's time to be pragmatic, finally, rather than mystic. Yes, I feel writing is my life's calling and what I should be doing, all the time. But I have a full time job that isn't writing, and a husband, and a child, and an apartment and bills, so I do not have the time to pussyfoot around this calling of mine if I want to make it something real, something solid, and something eventually lucrative. Writing is so easy when I want to do it, when it's raining and the house is quiet and I, for some reason, am momentarily alone and free of responsibilities and brimming with wonderful ideas. But if I only wrote in those conditions, I would produce about 4% of mediocre work. Yes, 4%.
(Clock is ticking.)
I'm young, I know, but relative to what? I'm old to my eighth graders, and ancient to my 11 year olds. I hear it's never too late, but I sure as hell could have gotten serious earlier. Looking back is useless though, so I'm steering this thing forward, kicking it into top gear, and ending the vehicular metaphor here before I gag. I have some immediate aspirations that I am actively working on that terrify me in their scope and potential for absolute devastation, and I have some long term goals that are less emotionally wearing but not nearly as comfortingly subversive to my current lifestyle. This, however, is a very happy medium: it is fast, and uncomplicated, and requires a level of determination and persistence that, lately, has been an absolute struggle. This is how I know it's so necessary.
(One hour, ten minutes. C'mon, c'mon.)
Write every day. Something every day. For 100 days. I have multiple sources of inspiration to thank for this, but mainly this is about me. What I want and what I need. I can't be afraid of wanting and needing things for myself, especially for something so indelibly a part of me as my writing, as intrinsic and vital as my heartbeat. An essay, a rant, a list, two sentences: whatever. The point is to write. I'm still looking for my voice, and looking for my passion, and this can only aid me in that search.