I wrote 6 thousand words of my novel today. I also rewrote the outline, and I wrote a journal entry and now I'm writing this.
I spent today doing what I am supposed to be doing. I mean Supposed to be doing. It is an odd conundrum that my life usually conspires totally against its purpose. I know this is my fault but I don't know how to untie the knots.
Maybe if I just keep writing. Maybe that will be enough to loosen the little devils.
Maybe when I sell something for enough to unite Life and Purpose, I will remember this as the time I crawled through the desert without water and made it through anyway.
What resilience I had, I will say of myself. What persistence. Persistence is key to writing, I will say by way of advice to other up and comers. Persistence is key.
Deep down I'll know that persistence is key is a stupid thing to say. Deep down I'll know that some days I wrote a thousand words. Some days I wrote six thousand. Some days I made a living for my family instead and my stories languished along with my thirsty, crawling soul.
Persistence? What else am I Supposed to do if not write? What else but dry up and become sand? I'm not just persisting. I'm insisting on my own survival.
Totally. I mean, it's like breathing for us... making art, writing. Isn't it weird that sometimes we don't breathe? Oh, wait. Is that where that knot in my shoulder comes from...?
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