Because you have to actually do it.
Because, even if you have a bad day, and even if you had to work until 11pm last night and then had to be back at work at 5am this morning, you still have to do it.
Because “once a week” seems like such an obligation. You could be getting a “once a week” pedicure. Or taking your dog to the park for a walk “once a week”. Or just doing laundry and cleaning the house “once a week”. “Once a week” becomes a luxury and you don’t want to spend that luxury on writing.
Because you want to make people laugh and all the stuff that you really want to write right now runs like an un-funny rant.
Because punctuation is hard.
So is proper grammar.
Because you keep scrolling through Facebook, hoping something slightly interesting will come up on Newsfeed. And then it doesn’t. And then you’ve wasted an hour that you could have spent writing.
Because you’re just tired of the rain and would rather stay in bed watching Downton Abbey (I’m only on Season Two!).
Because the story that you want to write about seems a little too judge-y and you don’t want people to get the wrong idea.
Because you might be over it.
(Am I, really?)
Because whomever said that “writing is the loneliest job in the world” was right and you’re tired of being lonely.
(Some writer or another said that. In fact, many writers have said that. Because it’s true.)
Because between the job and the dog and the chores and the bills and everything else, you’d just much rather have a glass of wine. Or, a bottle of it.
Because you’d rather be reading some Stephen King on this gloomy Pacific Northwest night.
Because you’re just avoiding it.
Because you just found out a couple of days ago that you’ve got a cousin (to whom you’re not close) dying in a hospital room.
He drank too much.
He’s only 33. Or thereabouts.
Because that feels like a strange thing that’s hard for you to process.
Because you’re just a little tired of writing and of talking about writing, of writing about talking.
Because you’re less than two weeks away from a visit to Boston and it’s been four years since you’ve left and you’re eager to go and see her–surely she’s changed almost as much as you have–but you’re worried that she’s changed too much (or that you have) and you’re wondering if she’ll still recognize you and if that pub crawl might bring up too many memories for you (what will you wear? which shoes will be best for walking?) and you wonder why you’re instinct to stay far away from UMass is so strong (you spent seven years of your life there!) but you think that that dream you had last night about walking through the Public Gardens might have something to do with it and you wonder why, in all the time that you lived there in that city, you never once heard of the Boston Molasses Flood?
And because when you write now, you know that people that you don’t know are reading you. And you wonder how much you want to tell them. Even if it’s only a few people, still. And because you understand, now, that when you decided that you wanted to be a writer (somewhere around, oh, six years old) you didn’t think about that part: all the people that would be staring at you(r words).