lallygag. dillydally. pussyfoot. these are real words that describe true to life my approach to writing, each and every morning. what is the science behind this? for the past week, i’ve refrained from the 15 minutes that it takes for me to feel like i’ve done my minimum duty of being a writer. instead, sadistically, i’ve chosen the alternative route of going about my days with the aching in the background of having not done so. when i don’t begin my days writing, everything else i do is tinged with guilt – scrolling away at feeds, meandering through the banalities of work, even doing things that i truly love, like spending time with my family.
i’m aware that writing isn’t a typical regiment. it is not like the clinical ways in which i’ve incorporated meditation, stretching, and other routines that i’ve tucked into my daily schedule in neatly-timed doses. i make my excuses to not write by convincing myself that these short sessions don’t count, that they’ll never be shared or published, that they probably won’t be any good. why waste my time on it then? i believe that i came to writing because it’s one of the things that i believed i could be truly great at. every writer i admire has said in one way or another that such greatness does not present itself like the eggs of a golden goose (the golden eggs of a regular goose?) but rather like a diamond in a pile of shit. tbh, i’m not sure if that’s a helpful analogy for me. who wants to spend each day knowingly producing shit? or do they mean it’s like taking a shit? that only by forcing yourself to squeeze one out each morning can you get to a point of regularity, of smooth movement, a healthy system.
or maybe that’s just bullshit. things people tell themselves to quell the unrealistic desire for constant, consistent, uninterrupted perfection. maybe it’s slowly and arduously realizing that it’s the perfection that’s the bullshit, and it’s the bullshit that’s the truth. [shrugging emoji]