She never wasted time on irony. Except when she did.
Like when her health declined in middle age to the point she believed she would never be the same again. Being defeated by illness will do that to a person.
So there she was again using that word, as if she could ignore how ‘never’ seemed to bubble to the surface of her existence as ‘maybe’ time and time again. As if her declarations of ‘never’ could be etched in glossy granite, scarring deeper with each utterance. As if she knew the most about her life and could direct its path by casting a word out into the universe.
At least she might find solace in being wrong. Because irony never wasted time on her, either. It played her swiftly and with ruthless honesty.
Someday, she might accept that within the penumbra of ‘never,’ possibility can shine through.
Maybe never. But maybe.
Day two hundred eighty-one of my 365 Day Writing Project.
I made time to write again today. I’m so glad I did because I thoroughly enjoyed it. Only two days in a row after some weeks of intermittent writing and I’m already succumbing to obsessive-compulsive writer moments. For instance, I was in the shower this morning thinking about a long dialogue between two of the characters of my new book. I was so immersed in my own imagination, I forgot to hurry in the shower to get ready for work. Before I knew it, my slow-poke son was standing outside the bathroom telling ME to get a move on. But I couldn’t leave the story be. In fact, I continued to think about it the rest of the day until I could write about it.
Truthfully, I’m still thinking about it. This is the kind of motivation I need. It might be obsessive or even a little crazy, but if it builds the momentum I so desperately need to get back on track to write every day, I’m all for it.
Day ninety-five of my 365 Day Writing Project.
Yesterday I only wrote 350 words. The day before that, only 300. And before that, 600. It has been a dismal week of writing by most accounts. But under the circumstances, for me in my little world, it has turned out to be triumphant. That’s because I have been been terribly unmotivated the past few days. I have been distracted and drained by other important things in my life. Writing got bumped lower down the list than it usually is. So it was no minor feat to get down 1,250 words the last three days. I had to force myself to write. Literally. I made myself sit down. Get the fingers on the keyboard. Do something with those fingers. Work the mind. Tickle the imagination. Write.
I FORCED myself. And I’m so glad I did. Because today, I’m back on track. It would have been so easy to take those days off. To just call a break. It would have been so easy to tell myself, “If I’m only going to write a small amount, I might as well just forget it.” It would have been so easy to convince myself to wait until I felt motivated again. But where would that have left me? I’ll tell you where: 1,250 words behind where I was this morning before the motivation kicked back in and I wrote another 1,000. And more than likely, if I hadn’t forced myself to write the last three days I would have still felt unmotivated today. I wouldn’t have gotten back on track so quickly. Three days off would have turned into a week, and then another week, and so on.
I’m 2,250 words better off having pushed on through those tough few days. And, I’m still writing every day. Triumphant.