What I Try to Do

I have been trying. The habit of morning writing seems to ebb and flow but I keep thinking "Just write. Write anything". I want to resume the habit of writing and find that unconscious brain to fingertip writing that comes when I least expect it.

I found a piece of that puzzle within my quiet little home-away-from-home. Bigger thoughts and deeper writing found their way onto the page while I savored the early mornings. All over the page kinds of thoughts. Interconnected but varying hues of the same but different story.

As I pondered whether I will continue to go to this little oasis when it gets cold and snowy, the idea of utilizing this as a quiet space to  write and let my creative juices flow has trumped my reluctance to drive in the winter. 

In the meantime, I seem to be struggling to maintain the demands of work-and-life-at-home with my promise to "just write".

My life feels like this half stained fence. I ran out of stain before I ran out of fence. Valiant effort. But incomplete:

I could list all the things I have started and left hanging in the middle. Undone. Incomplete. Out of stain. Out of time. Out of motivation. But I won't.

I will just do as Maya Angelou says:

"What I try to do is write. I may write for two weeks “the cat sat on the mat, that is that, not a rat.” And it might be just the most boring and awful stuff. But I try. When I’m writing, I write. And then it’s as if the muse is convinced that I’m serious and says, 'Okay. Okay. I’ll come.' " 

~ Maya Angelou

Then I will hone in on completing the job.