“you don’t write anymore,” he said, quirking that too-knowing eyebrow at me as we trekked our nightly trek around the neighborhood.
a misty ribbon of guilt spiraled around my lungs and squeezed. “i’ve been busy,” i said too fast, picking up the pace. “the symposiu-”
“the symposium’s over,” he said.
“no, it’s not! there’s the post…planning…the…emails…the…” i didn’t have to look at him to know that i’d have to find a stronger defense. “i’m planning a trip to scotland!”
“so! SO…it takes a lot of time. there’s DETAILS!”
he wasn’t buying it.
i thought about blaming my barely-functional laptop’s 10-minute load times, but even my own brain wouldn’t accept that excuse. probably half of the writers you admire so much didn’t even have typewriters, let alone laptops! don’t be such a wuss.
“i just…haven’t been inspired.” it felt shameful to say it out loud.
he shrugged. “you know how many times i’ve written something out of sheer inspiration? maybe twice in my life. you have to start writing when you’re not inspired, and it’ll come.”
a little field of dreams, i grant you, but irrefutable nonetheless. i was sitting here tonight catching up on my online reading and watching all these people create things that i couldn’t even dream of, and feeling intensely uninspired.
and then it clicked for me. don’t get me wrong, this is by no means new information or even particularly earth-shaking; it’s just my own little personal eureka moment. writing is like exercise. if you hold out to do the marathon, you’ll never get off the couch. there’s always going to be something else to do, or think about, or plan for. i have to actively make time for this too, just like i make time to walk or bike or go bowling.
i’ll write something tomorrow. promise.