I’m an on and off gym rat. I like the way exercise makes me feel, but sometimes the responsibilities of life get in the way. Still, I always seem to cycle back to throwing iron around, usually when I’m so tired and out of shape that I have to do something. Heading back to the club after a prolonged break leads to some pretty painful days as my muscles readjust, but after a week or so I’m good and wondering why I stopped, no matter what intervened. After a month, I can’t imagine not going every day.
My experience with writing is similar. I’ll be in a good place, getting down the stories and humming along, when sickness or family needs force me to put down my pen for a few days. Next thing I know, it’s been a week, two weeks, maybe a month and I haven’t written a thing. Getting back into the writing chair is painful, an ugly combination of anxiety, self loathing, and fear.
But I do it. The words come in drips and drabs. They are awful, or at least that’s the way I view them. Almost like I never constructed a coherent sentence in my life.
I get back into a rhythm. Ideas come and move from my brain to the paper with increasing ease. Soon I can’t remember why I stopped writing. It seems as natural as breathing, and just as critical to my existence.
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