It’s hard to write sometimes and I envy those who make it look so easy. The ones who can so expertly spin gold out of only a few black threads; creating literary miracles that leave your mind in a lasting state of wonder. It’s okay to be honest, right? Sometimes I hate my inability to sink into that meditative state of focus without willfully getting distracted by social media or some other trivial thing. I should actually hate that I ever allowed myself to be drawn away and disenchanted with writing at times.
But it’s okay to confess, isn’t it? That procrastinating can feel so cathartic — an oblivion that numbs every worrying thought — until I’m faced with the responsibility of exercising this flaccid writing muscle. I know I can be lazy. I don’t want to be bothered. I can’t be bothered…
I used to be comfortable feeling this way; I don’t have to do it today, there’s always tomorrow. Now that sense of complacency bothers. I won’t wait until tomorrow, but I’m irritated whenever I can’t get the words out the way I need to. The way I know I can if only I tried a little harder…
I don’t know how long I’ll keep at this writing thing, but I know it’ll be long enough to keep improving. Until I can slam the door in procrastination’s pretty face and determinedly sit, with my thoughts and an open book, on this chair of torture that bruises my backside like a seat of nails.
Even when I don’t feel like it, I’ll write. I’ll write until the words make sense and I figure out what my voice in words can truly sound like. For now, it seems to me like a clumsy staccato that’ll eventually build a steady tempo. And I’ll keep writing to fine-tune that sound into something that I’ll always love and other’s can come to appreciate too. Until I can make my own gold. Until I can give someone else, who knows all too well what this slump feels like, a little hope that they can make it too. As long as they keep trying.
Nomad Writer 
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