I made the choice a few months ago to take my writing seriously.
I’m pretty sure this lapse in judgement was a product of temporary insanity.
I, like so many, thought it was going to be easy. I had written all through college. I was president of the creative writing club. I got straight A’s in my English and literary classes. I had been told that I was talented. I was certain that all I needed was more time.
I have rarely been so wrong.
Time is not enough. Passion is not enough. I had both in abundance. What I did not have was an understanding of the writing process. I had always had prompts handed to me. Deadlines were printed out and enforced by people in positions to kill my GPA. It was a pretty nice set up.
Without it I floundered. I fell into this weird loop where I sat around and watched television shows and made up excuses about why I couldn’t write today. I blamed everyone and everything.
You know…aside from me.
I wish I could say that some particular moment snapped me into the realization that I wasn’t half as serious as I was pretending I was. There wasn’t. Those kinds of things happen in movies and epic sagas. What happened for me is that I just realized that I wasn’t actually doing any writing.
So here I am. I’m writing. Let’s do this.