Just over a month ago, I resolved to write at least fifteen minutes a day the whole summer long. I was in the writing doldrums at the time — desperate to be writing again, but too scared to start.
I’ve been in that place before, and it always takes two things to get me out:
I have to commit to writing for at least 15 minutes a day.
I have to be willing to be (very) bad at it.
It sounds easy, put like that, but it’s not. There are plenty of days where I want to give up — days when Sweetpea is sick, I am sick, and the only free fifteen minutes I have are at the end of a very long day. And there are days when my writing seems so spectacularly bad that it hardly seems worth keeping on.
But I have kept on, and so far I haven’t missed a day. Not just out of sheer bullheadedness, but because there are good times as well as bad ones: golden moments when the right phrase is found, blissful hours when everything flows, days of grace when I practically dance my way to the keyboard because I’m so eager to be back in the story.
Best of all, I’m now writing thousands of words a week, and the draft that’s emerging excites me.
Not bad for someone who thought that this summer she might not write at all.