My name is Elizabeth Potts Weinstein, and it has been six days since I have written.
Six days since my last paragraph, phrase, journal entry, blog post, physical expression of my creativity, mental rambling, angst, poetry, rant, or endless diatribe.
And I am bursting.
Overflowing with stories, with metaphors, with lessons only partially learned because they have not yet been memorialized in a tangible form for digestion by the masses.
But before anything profound can flow from my fingertips onto this keyboard, I must first write this crap.
One of those lame, throat clearing, guilt-filled confessions of “I’m so sorry that I have not written” blog posts.
Except that I’m not sorry.
And I don’t feel guilty.
Here’s the thing.
Yes, I write every day.
I write every day … except on the days that I don’t.
The days when I am going from 4:17 AM and miss that scared morning window of silence and space, thinking I’ll fit in writing on the bus to pole dancing class or after I dismiss the babysitter at 10:43 PM and I’m collapsing into my foam-top bed but I fall asleep with my iPhone and book and journal on my chest, only to wake in the twilight of a missed opportunity.
The days when I go from spending two hours to find a notary in the financial district of San Francisco to the mad dash to BART, airport tram, security, gate, terminal, baggage claim, taxi, Vegas casino lobby, hotel room, thinking I’ll fit writing in when I unpack or am waiting in the casino bar or in between the happy hour and the tweetup, but the necessarily silence never materializes.
The days when I’m intoxicated, when I’m hungover, when I’m full of angst and worry and confusion, drugged by the over-saturation of Vegas oxygen, watching an endless parade of Spanish language infomercials, and the ability to form a coherent bullet point of profoundness or relevancy never presents itself.
Some days, it just ain’t going to happen.
Writing every day isn’t about writing every day.
It’s about picking up the pen, opening the laptop, surrendering to the blank page or the stark white TextEdit screen, regardless of how easy it would be to make the excuse.
The excuse that it’s been so long since I’ve written, I’ve already fallen off the wagon, I’m just not able to write every day, my life just isn’t suited for writing consistently, I just can’t.
So I might as well not even try.
That is the greatest temptation to the discipline of art.
As much as art, writing, the act of creation is about this magical surrender, this channeling of inspiration, this fear-ladden challenge of speaking only the most real truth …
It’s also about just freaking doing it.
Sitting down to write. Anyway.
Even on the day after you didn’t.
Do you find it hard to write (or create your art) on the day after you didn’t? Hard to get back on the wagon? What works for you?
I’d love to hear your comments / feedback / ideas / stories below!