The hardest part of everything
Many people will agree that the hardest part of anything is the beginning. The first ten minutes I spend on the elliptical machine are always the most torturous, pulling the lawnmower out of the garage to cut the grass is the most difficult part of mowing, and avoiding the million-things-that-can-distract-you-from-writing is the worst.
I once read an author’s quote where he said that he left the house to write because if he didn’t he’d find himself “staring into the fridge as if it held all the answers to the world”, instead of writing. Boy do I know what that is like.
Currently, I have a full-time job, a family life, and some strands of a social life. These things I’ve groomed and attended to so that I might grow as a person, enjoy this time I’ve been given, and be whatever of a blessing I can to those around me. Sadly, by choosing life, I also at times have to refuse writing. After all, the balance between living life and a person’s art is often tenuous.
When I first embarked on writing as a possibility in my life, I believed I had yet to experience life. Such is often the lament of the young. Looking back now, I know I’ve had an interesting life. The decisions I’ve made have led me to discover many a myriad notes about myself and how the world works. All of these things infuse my art, inspire my words, and shape the soul for which inspiration sprouts. They also take away from the time available for which to voice that inspiration.
The dichotomy is both exhilarating and bothersome. It is so invigorating to know that I have so much going on that life is a little more because of me, but it is also so frustrating and sad to know that my creation, my voice, my counsel suffocates in the restraints brought on by the very thing which fuels it.
The night, when the moon swam across the velvet sky, my mind would hear stories in the silence and spill them upon the page. Now, night is a time to unwind from the day and relax; a time to reconnect to the family I’ve been away from all day. Soon, in order to bring the balance back between my art and my life I’m going to have to retreat back into the night. In the spring I vowed to get up early and work on my writing while the rest of the world still slept. Alas, my mind is too foggy in the morning, too geared toward solving the problems of the day ahead. Therefore, it is in the night, the time that exists when the waking world has turned to slumber, that I must seek to ply my trade.
A few weeks ago a professional told me to never give up. Christine Purcell saw something in my command of the English language and my use of it that she liked. She even said that despite my lack of formal training I used some tropes better than most at my level. Such words are inspiring. Such prase is encouraging.
I will then move my work from the random short spurts afforded me during the hectic daytime and into the night, where it will fourish once more. This is my time. This is my opportunity to work toward that dream that I dared not dream as a kid. My time to never give up.