I wake up most mornings knowing that I have to write. It’s like waking up with the understanding that if you don’t crawl out of bed, you’ll eventually piss in it. And while I’ve still got the presence of mind to empty my bladder, I’ll sit in front of the computer, in the dim yellow light of an energy-saving bulb, and play video games.
It’s been this way for a long time now. The reason I’m so deeply troubled by the urge to write is that once, not so long ago, I would wake and put pen to paper first thing every morning. I’d do that for months, until I’d written a book. Then there’d be a layoff while I allowed whatever internal batteries responsible for long-form writing to recharge, then I’d do it again. But like any rechargeable device, the period between charges got longer and longer until I reached a point where I felt like they’d exhausted completely.
Some say writing is a discipline every bit as demanding as cardiovascular training. A person must push themselves constantly, consistently, and at ever harder levels of difficulty to maintain a certain level of health. I’m not so sure this is the same with the wordsmithing, but then again I’ve never approached it that way. Perhaps it’s time for a re-evaluation of my methodology.
It’s not humanity’s stupidity but the willingness to display it that astounds me.
The sky feels old and tired this morning.
2016.03.01