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I’ve been an erratic, undisciplined writer most of my life all the while holding the belief that I need some sort of schedule, or that some sort of magical regularity to when and how I write would just magically fall into place… But the thing is, I don’t support myself through writing and so, like any recreational pursuit, no matter how passionate, it easily gets pushed to the side. I also tend to jump in the deep end instead of easing into changes in behavior or starting new activities. About a week ago or so, I decided to try an incredibly practical approach: write for 10 minutes every day. That’s it. Doesn’t matter when. Doesn’t matter what (except e-mails and writing for my day job don’t count). Have I met the goal every day? Nope. I’ve probably skipped 3 or 4 days, but almost every day I have written has been well over 10 minutes. It’s simply the getting started that matters.

One day, I was tired, but decided not to let myself off the hook. Which means sometimes you get crap like this, but it’s sort of like cleaning the cob webs out of your head:

The rigamortis rigamarole—
A dance she asked if I knew.
My lips sneered, my heart cowered,
Something pressed hard
against the inside of my zipper.

A waltzing pshaw why
Gring gring grong
Uhhhhhh I should sleep
Now it’s just obligatory
Letters typed on the screen
Soon to b deleted
Repleted anastomosis
Better retreated.

Yuh? I mean. Yeah?
Maybe not. Whatever.
I need to wash the tub
And shower. And read.
Or sleep or something.

Fuck this.

 

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