I got up at 4:30 this morning because I couldn’t sleep, and I couldn’t sleep because I had spent yesterday out of town and I shoved my personal work aside. After a day of denying my need to write, this is what I have done to myself. I HAVE TO WRITE. There’s no way around it. So I’m up early, to write, before the next commitment.
I don’t know what it is; it gets hold of you and doesn’t let you rest until you’ve released the pressure. The words are piled up inside and must come out. You’ve invited the muse to show up but when you don’t show up, the words want to come out anyway, and when you don’t let them, haven’t made the personal time to do that, they build up, the pressure of all those words crowding together inside you.
I have to learn to take myself seriously, and by that I mean, take my writing seriously. It is not something to be shoved into corners. It must be the centerpiece of the room. Sure, it could be a female thing—take care of everything else before you take care of yourself, but I don’t like excuses.
I have a choice. I want to choose the writing life, so why do I keep shoving it back? Is it because I don’t take myself seriously as a writer? Probably. That’s a slippery slope and I’m not going down it. I am a writer. I am a writer. I am a writer.