As my calendar adjusts to recent cancellations, I realize my excuses for not writing are dwindling. Writing is something I challenge myself to do every day. After all, I am a writer. But, sometimes I’m happy for the distraction to not write. It’s an odd contradiction.
Sometimes writing feels like work. It becomes an obligation. When it seems like a chore, I often start doing actual chores. Then, the time I know I am at my best for forming words is gone.
Sometimes I have to remember why I started writing in the first place.
So much about writing is akin to well-being. I could express in writing what only came out as screams and tantrums when I was a child. Somehow writing calms me into appropriate expressing who I am, what I feel, how I think, and why I still believe.
We live in unsettling times. Every generation has their war, their plague, and their pestilence. We are not immune. But, we can share our words. We can express our joys and sorrows. We can become part of history because we chronicle our stories. That is part of how we survive.