I have this sign up above my treadmill that says, "THIS IS THE YEAR I WILL..." and I've often thought about what future lies on the other side of the ellipses. A new publication? A new running goal? A fun writing conference? When the New Year came and passed and I remained incommunicado to the internet world, it wasn't because I hadn't been thinking or dreaming up goals to achieve this year. Nor was it because I was ashamed for not completing my goals for last year. It was because I was too busy writing.
Ever since encountering The War of Art by Steven Pressfield, I have been a writing machine, giving Resistance the cold shoulder and honing my talents non-stop! Well, most days for six to nine consecutive hours anyway. I take meals in my office, editing between bites. Beyond the door, the dishes and chores and life are a distant, oneiric memory, while inside, it's me, the story, God, and my K-9 muse, Spike, who lounges in the recliner, huffing little snores.
It's only January and I've submitted to a contest and a journal, and I have two more lined up for the end of the month. That's, sadly, what I used do in a year. I don't know what it is about the book that kicked me into high gear. Perhaps it was the identification and demarcated limitations of the enemy (Resistance), or the knowledge that it exists in me. Perhaps it was the set of weapons Pressfield provided to slay the beast. Or the freedom he offered to write what I wanted to write. Either way, pounding out these stories and memoirs day after day has been nothing short of ethereal.
I've never been happier than I am shaping something from nothing. This is where I belong.
That's why this year is the year I will...create.