Alright, the Void is over. Christmas is officially past, “The Holidays” are through, I am out of excuses. I am exhausted. I am hung over, in a spiritual way.
I am motivated to restart.
I have thought a lot about what my voice is, my point, my purpose. I have thought a lot about nothing, and about everything. I have thought a lot about writing.
I want to set goals. Big, soaring, lofty things that can be broken down into smaller, more achievable bitesizes. I want to say things like “This is year I get published. This is the year I get my first rejection letter. This is the year I write my first query letter.”
But I don’t want to put my dreams on the pile. Saying things like that, it’s a death sentence. I don’t want this to be another year I Just tootle away, having fun writing, and never going anywhere with it, because I set Goals(TM) and burn out on my joy.
I want this year to have Joy.
And I want to write. Everyday.
I will not want to write everyday, but I want to write every. day. This year, I will set that small goal, and I will achieve it. I will write. Every. Day.
So this is day 1. Day one sound pretty good. Day two will also sound probably pretty fine. Day 3, my weekend is over. Back to work.
Day 26 I expect to be bad, because I expect to have missed some days by then. So I am stopping day 26 NOW.
I am enlisting the help of several friends, a handful of strangers, and good people of the internet who like helping. Talk to me. Ask me about my writing. Ask me what I’ve written today.
I will queue. I will reblog. I will tweet, post, save drafts and otherwise harass myself into writing everyday.
Because I like the way it feels. I like the way my brain works when its saturated in words. I like the authenticity of my voice when I let it out, let it really happen. Give it room to breathe.
I like being a writer who writes every day.
I don’t like writing every day. I like to be lazy. I like to give myself time off. But I like the pudding of getting shit done better. And–and this is the lie we all forget–there is always time for lazy. I can have lazy, AND be a writer that writes every day, if I just don’t put it off.
I’m getting up at 7, every day. That’s 7 at night for those of you following along at home. I am setting an every day alarm for 7 at night, and I am setting a second one for 8. I am allowed one hour of dicking around, of making coffee and playing on Tumblr and letting my dog out to pee. And then I am writing. Even if it is seven days in a row of
I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO WRITE I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO WRITE I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO WRITE I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO WRITE I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO WRITE
because I know that of that boredom a phoenix arises. I am easily bored. I am a bored human. I cannot write seven days of “I don’t know what to write” without writing SOMETHING else out of sheer desperation.
So I guess that’s what to expect. Every day at 8 or 9 or 10 or so, there will be a page with “I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO WRITE” scrolled across it in terrifyingly thick bold letters. Or there will be something wonderful, or something awful. Either way, there will be something.
And I will be happier for it.