So you are tired out by the day job, then try to crawl to your writing desk late evening.
Some days you even manage to make it to the keyboard, for you’ve managed to fall asleep on the bus on the way home.
On a particularly good day you even type out a sentence or two.
Ten, twenty, fifty…five hundred words today.
Yeah, major win. Five. Hundred. Words.
You squeeze them out till it feels like your eyeballs are about to burst.
You dribble out the last few words till your hand twinges and protests it can’t type anymore.
Then the images unfold, you shut your eyes, keep going just a little longer, give the fingers permission to just type the damn words out. Don’t dare read them, not now.
Why do you do it? Put yourself through this every single day?
You don’t know. Yes, you do. It’s that compulsion isn’t it? If you don’t write, or look at the sentences every day it just feels like there’s nothing else left. Like everything else is worthless.
You raise your head just past midnight…think of a cold beer…know you can’t. You have to be up in a few hours.
But today you beat that damn resistance. Yay!