Running a race. Keeping a blog. Visiting a country. Writing a novel.
Others will start with me. They will not all make it. I will.
It's just who I am.
Except that today, I almost didn't get there. Seven hundred and seven words into the novel, I thought, Screw it. Do that nonfiction book instead. In fact, maybe write nothing at all, since what's dribbling out isn't doing anything for me.
I opened a new document and started to write an essay about Mark Sanchez, although I didn't get to Mark just yet. I wrote my way over to him, and the process wasn't too painful, and just when I arrived, I decided that I'd give the novel another try. Why not.
|Weep not, Mark. We'll meet again in .docx form.|
I conclude today at 1,691 words. The story may eventually be parceled into parts and shopped around, it may work magnificently as a whole, it may be nada, but I'm doing something. Not just talking about writing, or thinking about how I ought to submit, or letting ideas romp around. I am actively writing outside of this space, and I've needed more of that lately.
What are you doing? Will you stop, or do you have the endurance for the journey?
#308: Pitbull, "Pump It Up"