It feels so right to write. When I don’t write, everything goes wrong. At first, it seems harmless. I stop writing—just for the weekend, or until after this deadline at work.
Then the unconsious sabotage kicks in. Writing isn’t that important. I need to focus on my problems. Around this time, I start binging interferrence, irreverent Podcasts and Netflix that scramble my creative wavelengths.
The days pass without appreiciation to stop and smell the roses. I am consumed by anxiety over a likely hypotheical. I need to solve this problem! How can I even think about writing as long as I have this problem? I’ve forgotten all about the roses, and how sweet they smell.
Two months later, the problem still exists. Do I still exist? Writing is my totem, my ancor, my stake in the ground.—Who I am. What I think. How I feel. In this moment.—When I don’t write, at first it’s ok. But two months later, I feel like a stranger.
A stranger. An impostier. As if it weren’t me who wrote every Beat ever. I reread my words as a portal into my previous state of mind. The state of being a writer and knowing it.
I bring myself back to the present and keep my fingers on the keys. My problem still exists. But now I remember that I do too.
I promise myself that I’ll never stop writing again. Which means I promise to write every day for the rest of my life. What if I wrote every day for the rest of my life? Impatience and curiosity battle for my attention. I dismantle their grip with the instant gratification of continuing to write.
So I take on this challege, feeling confident with the last eight days of writing to blaze my trail. Nothing has happened yet. As of Day 7, I haven’t produced a single Beat. But I can’t help but feel that if write everyday for the rest of my life, sooner or later, something magical will happen.
I don’t even know what that means! Something magical. Maybe just that my writing will bring me closer to others.
We all want to feel a part of something bigger than ourselves. Today, I am in this alone. Hours spent writing in solitude. What a selfish way to spend my time. (Not to mention counter intuitive if what I want is to be closer to others.) But if I keep writing, everyday for the rest of my life, maybe I can change that. Or at least, die trying.
I won’t be perfect everyday. Some days I will write the minimum quickly, a stream of consciousness that technically meets the quota. Some days, like today, I will take a few hours to wade through my daily words. Over time, the days will fuse together, fortifiying my writer’s raft as I continue sailing these uncharted waters.
I won’t produce a new Beat everyday. Some days I will write all my words without feeling a single spark. But the Beat will always come back, as long as I keep writing.