Writing is hard. I think this every morning when I get off the graveyard shift and push myself to sit down and write for four hours. Lately I've been excusing myself due to feeling tired, needing to ride the bus home, not wanting to plug in my laptop, and other weak excuses that I glom onto like my life depends on it. I wish I could hit the pause button for a while, and only worry about working and sleeping until I've made the money I need to coast for a while. But that's the thing, isn't it? Life keeps rolling along, even if you didn't get enough sleep, or aren't quite ready to work, or just want to sit for a moment. Whether you're ready or not, your life is happening right now.
So here I sit, in a cold restaurant, with a headache, pushing myself to write just a little bit longer before my shift starts and I get caught up in the grind again. Sometimes it feels like life is spinning out of control, what with the dirty laundry, long to-do list, and bills that keep showing up every month, but I try to remember that these are the cogs I need to keep clean and turning in order to enjoy the things I want to, things like dozing in the sun, holding my husband's hand, and yes, even writing in a cold diner. I might not be completely ready for the next twenty-four hours of my life, but it's happening no matter what, so I'm going to do my best to make the most of it.
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