Lately, I’ve a the distinct urge that I haven’t felt in quite a while. I used to get it all the time, before college. In fact, even way before that. I would hear a song or see something take place that struck a chord with me. And I’d need to do it: write. It was a hobby then, before it became my major and then, expected. It became regimented. Though the last two years of my undergrad and graduate school, I definitely learned more about the process of writing and editing and not self-censoring. The deadlines made me write and pushed me to produce. But they also made me disgusted with writing; it felt forced. It wasn’t how I wanted to do it.
I haven’t sat down to write – and actually gotten anything of substance – in probably over a year, maybe longer. This saddens me. Sometimes when my office is slow and the late afternoon sun floods my office with warmth, I wonder why I’m not using that time more effectively. Honestly, had I gathered up all the minutes and turned them into hours, I might have been able to write a novel or at least a novella.
Today, I really thought I might start working on something. Just begin and see where it leads me. It’s not as easy as it once was; I don’t have the kind of free time to just do this as I please. These days, I actually have yo make time, force myself, stick with it. But nothing worth doing is ever easy so I guess it’s time to buckle down. I’ll probably be happier in the end if I do.