It’s July. Technically the fifth or sixth week of summer break for instructors and students not involved in summer classes. But for all intents and purposes, my summer break has barely begun. I’ve done no writing. Except for this past week, I’ve simply been too busy with things that are, truly, more important than finding a poem or fiddling with a story.
And here I am with nothing to say on the art and business of writing. It’s July. I’m heat-drained and testy. I have an hour a day to myself; an hour to watch a show or read or shower or write. I have a post due. I find myself wanting to quit. Why spend the hour telling other people about writing? Why wrestle with the words when there’s no real action?
Because I joined this group to encourage myself – and through the reality of deadline, demand of others – to make the time to write. Because I really do want to be part of the writing community in some small fashion. It’s small, my part in this community. It’s merely a start. I suspect several of us have started this way, with a step that froze in place like a walk caught in ice.
I find myself wanting to quit. I feel I’m stuck in place. But I suspect I’m just caught in time, waiting for things to shift a bit, the world to tilt just enough that the ice melts and the next step placed.