My writing is half-assed. It is an afterthought, a chore. 10 minutes a day. Dragging myself, something unknown dragging me forward, continuing this process of writing exercises as I work my way through a book of prompts that will somehow spit me out sideways the other end with memoir material. I write train-of-thoughts, no editing (a comma exchanged for a semi-colon at times.) It is how I have lived my life, this practice of writing. Enough to say I do it, daily.
Commitment is not a feeling. It is action, it is a way of being. I am committed to writing, to seeing it through: through the “bad” pieces, and the overtly pornographic ones, the boring as hell ones, the lifeless ones. But there have also been a few nuggets of gold in the mine of my writing mind. I simply show up daily to mine and occasionally there may be a Eureka! moment. Writing creates a space where there was none. It is turning formless into form, it is emulating the divine as a creator. Left undone, this urge to write has niggled me, tickling me under my rib cage, sometimes poking me painfully, for the better part of my life. I am letting it out now. It is aimless, this process, at this point. I am meandering, finding my voice, myself. I am being led as if on a leash, down some path on which I can only see a few feet ahead. It doesn’t matter where it’s leading, but if I stop writing, I’ll never see the path’s end.