Okay. So there's ice: skate-able ice on the pond, and someone (the city?) has cleared paths and rinks, and blue has broken through the clouds, and the temptation is strong. Close the file, brave the minus whatever windchill and lace up. It's all about just doing it, right?
My carrot for gluing myself here and writing all day--the promise of a twirl and stumbling glide (notwithstanding my aching ankles). The reward. After I've done "enough."
Stephen King has that quota, you know: ten pages a day, every day. Easy for him, given his imagination. It's a worthy goal. Not always practical. In fact, given life, hardly practical at all.
But we try.
Trying is like throwing cookies to that thing under the bed, under the stairs, down in the basement, up in the attic. The glow-in-the-dark monster that always wants more. That snarls, Hey, what kind of writer are you if you're not, um, writing?
More to the point, pushing the pen, tapping the keys, can be a frantic scrambling slippy-sliding move to keep yourself from looking down. Or up.
You have to be in the right mood, the right place, to do either. The same goes for staring into space, or at the blankety-blank screen.
Which makes that other cookie-craver, the girl that just wants to have fun, all the more persuasive, yes?
Good ice comes once a winter.
Darkness hangs around, though, you'll notice. It can be at your beck and call when you're ready.
The same with a good laugh, or a shovel.
Or a sleeping laptop.
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