This is the year that I’m forcing myself to become a writer. I’ve started writing a downright shitty book, full of cliches and adverbs, and I have no idea where I’m going with it. But I’m getting it out there. It’s the book I’ve been holding inside of me for years, and I’m doing it. I want to shape it, help it grow. I’d love for it to be great one day. But, right now, I’m getting that shitty thing on paper one word at a time.
I’ve committed to writing for at least an hour, for at least five days out of the week. As much as I wish I could quit my job and dedicate myself to my dream full time, I have to go to work. A part of me likes work, finds inspiration there. I’ve looked to other writers to see how they’ve circumvented this problem. So many of them offer the same piece of advice, morning pages. They get up before their normal day would start and churn out some writing. Before the different stresses of life arise, before work and family and friends drain the energy, before the phone starts ringing, they dedicate themselves to solitude and writing.
I’m not a morning person. My college roommate, who has been one of my lifelong friends, described my morning persona as “Satan incarnate.” I’d like to think that with maturity, I’ve become a little less demonic in response to my alarm, but I still hate it. I love nothing more that staying in bed, continuing my dream, snuggling for an unreasonable amount of hours. I’m a pro at it.
So this whole morning pages thing has been something I have always eliminated as a possibility for me. But this is the year. This is when I dedicate myself to writing, when I decide that writing my shitty book is more important than an extra hour of sleep. I bargained with myself. At first, I planned on doing it every day before work. Then I eliminated Saturday, because it is already tragic enough that I work on Saturday. Then I eliminated Fridays, because I already get up at six and that’s too early. Soon enough, Wednesday went out the door, because it’s like my Monday, and Monday’s are horrible.
So Thursday.
If I can resist the snooze tomorrow morning, it will be my third Thursday in a row where I got up an hour early to write morning pages. I sulk for about five minutes, then I get down to it. It makes such a difference. That little sacrifice of sleep reminds me how important this work is to me. It gets my brain going in the directions I want it to go. And my shitty book keeps growing and growing.
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