I have been sitting here for a long time now, surfing the internet and looking at news articles with no real purpose, not quite ready to do some daily writing which I promised I would do each and every day. Sometimes I want to believe in writer’s block. That there is this mystical force that holds us back from doing what we said we were going to do, but that’s bullshit. I have been proving the theory of writer’s block wrong for about two years now.
There are only three possibilities when it comes to writing. One, you believe in writer’s block and write nothing at all, which doesn’t make you a writer incidentally. Two, you don’t know what to write about but you push through because you said you would. Now this may not be your best work. It might be terrible quite frankly but it is writing none the less. Three, you write some good things because you’ve stuck with it long enough to write good things.
I think all things in life presents us with the same options. Do nothing. Do and fail. Do and succeed. Only one of those options sentences us to complete failure. Guess which one?
Yet here I am, two hundred or so words in, writing about writing. Besides becoming a unfilled Seinfeld episode about nothing, there is a lesson here. I write because the act of writing is more important than the final outcome. For the same reason we love someone, which can’t be measured or summed up in an event or on a Hallmark card.
That is the key to our dreams. Just do the work and don’t worry how you sound, how long it takes, or what life throws in your way to complicate things. Just keep moving. Keep writing. Keep playing. Keep cooking. Keep on keeping on as they say.
That’s the key to everything and most certainly for me now being done.
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