I’ve written five days in a row. Let me tell you how.

Sitting down at my computer was stressing me out. Reserving hours of writing time was stressing me out. My body couldn’t handle the stress, sitting at the computer, or the long hours.

So I took a blank journal, separated it into eight sections and every night I pick one or two areas and write about those things. It’s been less stressful. In fact, I’ve found myself looking forward to it each evening. It’s slower to write by hand (and I usually hate that), but it’s what this season requires of me.

Had a great conversation today with dear @brestrobel, who asked if I ever feel like WHY DO I KEEP TRYING TO DO THIS THING THAT IS SO HARD?

YES! ALL THE TIME!

But we both concluded it’s the one thing we want to excel at.

Writing at 39 is different than writing at 13, when I would willfully spend hours working on (terrible) stories. There was nothing I’d rather do. So why does it feel like I have to force myself these days? I suppose there could be a thousand reasons. Life is fuller, busier, and more complicated than at 13 (though perhaps not harder… 13 with undiagnosed OCD is not pretty). Maybe it’s harder in different ways.

Even in college, I saved my writing homework for last because it was so pleasurable. But when was the last time I’ve called writing pleasurable now? 2012 maybe, writing that first draft of Truest?

But here’s the thing. I still want it. I still love it. I’m still called to it and compelled by it. Life is messy and I have a complicated relationship with writing, but I DO HAVE A RELATIONSHIP. It has chosen me, and I really do feel a great sense of purpose in writing. There’s nothing else I want to do.

Wow, rambling, I know, but that was all to say: one thing wasn’t working, so I tried something else. The journal. And it’s working so far. And I love writing, except when I don’t.

Even then.