Dedicating the Time

I’m going to remake myself again. This time, I want to write professionally.

I don’t know what I’m doing or really understand why I’m doing it. Writing seems like such an easy thing to do at first. Like everything else, though, it’s the details that complicate the activity. The details always force me to consider whether the activity is really worth my time. And then, discouraged, I pick my deflated interest up off the floor and I walk away.

Usually, the breaks I take from the activity is only temporary. It seems cyclical and that used to make me think that I had some sort of disorder that would prevent me from finishing anything. This time feels different. I’m making a concerted effort to get up 1 hour earlier than I typically do and dedicate that time to writing. When it’s written down like this, it seems absurd that getting up an hour earlier to do an activity that I enjoy would cause me so much consternation.

Writing prose has helped me to organize my thoughts for as long as I can remember. It doesn’t feel like a chore. It cuts down the amount of white noise in the background. It seems like something I should do more. I already find myself reading during most of my spare time. The things I read typically don’t make me feel I couldn’t recreate the mood they communicate or reform the argument that’s being made into my own words.

I don’t want to just reform arguments though. I want to make my own. I feel that there’s a depth to my internal life that I think is worth putting down in words. I don’t know whether these explicit gestures actually make will make me more “successful” in my task. I can’t promise originality, not right away or for the foreseeable future.

I can dedicate the time.