Today, I Almost Didn’t Write
On tired evenings, everything goes slowly. The keystrokes, the words, the lines of ideas and possible combination of 26. It doesn’t get harder, it’s just a tiring pull from mind to fingers — a silent echo of a promise to try daily and the unspeakable feast of procrastinatory remarks.
We could skip today, you think. It’s just one day.
Nothing changes in one day, does it?
Your writing doesn’t make a real difference, does it?
You can’t restart the Government with a story, can you?
You’re tired, aren’t you?
On the other days, it is a battle. A distinct fight between keeping a promise you made and relegating all past efforts to the weaker pull — -the pull of distraction, commitments, Resistance and the present.
The pull of now: laundry, packing books and cleaning becomes paramount. I should take the trash out today so I won’t have to do it again next week.
But we both know I will still do it on Thursday. So why this Tuesday, you ask? Why now? Because it’s important, says the weaker pull.
Some call it writer’s block.
But on tired evenings, the battle is of the flesh and the mind. It’s the pulling of bone on skin, muscle on artery.
It’s writing because this moment must be documented; it’s fighting the heart of sleep; it’s basking in the struggle of eyelids shutting each other out and catching the slight gossamer of hope.
We could skip today, you think.
But you know. We know. That this is how it begins. This is the first step. The first excuse. The first instance. Exhibit A in the court of procrastination. The crack in the armor.
This is how it ends.
The day everything lines up perfectly for the excuse: we had to attend the family meeting, we had to come home late, things didn’t work out as planned.
It. Just. Makes. Sense.
A few hours ago, I told someone that I would love to read and write for the rest of my life. I have always loved to write, but now I know I would give my life to this.
I will do it every day.
It’s the one way I can tell the world what’s happening in my mind. It’s the only way the world lets me be myself; I get to tell you what burns in my spirit without interruption.
As each key connects with my finger, I feel power — control — I feel more than who I am. I feel a part of an army, I feel the extension of my soul to a space that only lets it grow.
I can tell you today was a long, unpredictable day.
I can tell you I am sleepy. I can tell you I don’t feel I am skilled enough to write the novel I just realized I had been working on for the past 4 years.
I can tell you I am reading books on writing because I want to be better.
I can tell you I am devoting my life to writing. I feel that I may never be good enough to tell the stories that I feel are calling at me from the depts of my heart.
I can tell you today I almost didn’t write.
Or I can just sit down and write.
Today, I almost didn’t write.
So, I wrote what you just read.