Writing can be an arduous task.
The students I'm tutoring repeatedly remind me.
But I refuse to listen to their excuses and complaints, and I continue to encourage them to begin by writing one sentence at a time.
However, since I recently decided that I will finally finish writing my book (y'know, the one I should have finished years ago if I had followed my life plan), I find myself making the same excuses as my students. Lately, I've been constantly complaining to the pictures on my desk and the stacks of books on the shelf next to me about how I just can't do this. The ideas run amok in my mind, but somehow, organizing them onto my computer screen becomes almost an impossible task.
"Oh, I don't have time for this," I whine. Aloud.
"I'm a lawyer, and I have legal cases to read, briefs to write, and trials to prepare for. I don't have time for this," I whine even more.
And so, following each tirade made only to those that cannot respond, I step away. Sit outside in my balcony. Coffee in hand. There's a sense of comfort that comes with the warmth of a coffee cup between my hands. A few minutes later, the frustration wanes, and the familiar breath of inspiration seeps through me. And I return. And I begin to write. Again.
One sentence at a time.
The students I'm tutoring repeatedly remind me.
But I refuse to listen to their excuses and complaints, and I continue to encourage them to begin by writing one sentence at a time.
However, since I recently decided that I will finally finish writing my book (y'know, the one I should have finished years ago if I had followed my life plan), I find myself making the same excuses as my students. Lately, I've been constantly complaining to the pictures on my desk and the stacks of books on the shelf next to me about how I just can't do this. The ideas run amok in my mind, but somehow, organizing them onto my computer screen becomes almost an impossible task.
"Oh, I don't have time for this," I whine. Aloud.
"I'm a lawyer, and I have legal cases to read, briefs to write, and trials to prepare for. I don't have time for this," I whine even more.
And so, following each tirade made only to those that cannot respond, I step away. Sit outside in my balcony. Coffee in hand. There's a sense of comfort that comes with the warmth of a coffee cup between my hands. A few minutes later, the frustration wanes, and the familiar breath of inspiration seeps through me. And I return. And I begin to write. Again.
One sentence at a time.
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