It is near 3:30 pm and I am finally writing my blog post.
The word ‘finally’ tells the story. My determination to write is hiding.
There are days when I back away from writing, and this is one of them. I could blame a so-so night’s sleep and the leading edge of a cold for weakening my determination.
These are only invented excuses, looking for something to blame. I know this because this morning, instead of writing, I spend several hours doing other things, and not once do these excuses show up to stop me.
Eventually, I exhaust the list of ‘other things’. I go eat lunch. I read. I look at the kitchen clock a few times. I feel this creeping sense of disappointment that I have not spent the past hours writing, that I have not opened the way into something I love.
I feel a need to analyze why I did not write this morning as planned, but I know that kind of exercise should be filed under excuses to not write. That’s not where I want to be right now.
Love invites me to invent any excuse for writing. Here’s one. Create a list titled ‘any excuse to write’.
My list starts with three words–I love writing. I love playing with words. I love taking an idea or a question, turning it around and upside down and inside out, feeling what it feels like, then turning feeling into words.
I love reading. I love being inspired by other writers’ words. I love finding words in reply to the inspiration they’ve offered me. I love being inspired by writers who never stop writing because they know writing is as necessary as breathing.
I have as many excuses to write as there are words in the dictionary. I have as many excuses as there are new words being invented and thrown into language just to see what happens.
I have a million million excuses to write. My excuse for writing today is to squash that creeping disappointment that I did not write.
Yes. Works for me.