I am exhausted. I have a migraine and a neon red sunburn. The house is a dump because we have all spent the weekend useless and in a state of sunburn-sick. My son should have been put to bed an hour ago, and there is a movie paused on our TV because even though it’s 9PM, Hubby had to go run an errand so that his work-week to get going in the morning.
I should not be here blogging.
I want to write. I want beautiful words and rhythmic truths to flow from my brain and through my fingers onto this screen. All the writing books for writers, all the self-care journaling articles in super-woman magazines, all writing teachers say the same thing: you must write
to become a decent writer. You have to let all the words out even if they’re ugly and jumbled and just practice, practice, practice your craft. Commit to it. Write a lot. Write all the time. Write ’til it hurts, then write ’cause it hurts.
They just forget to tell you what to write about.