This afternoon I had an incredible workout. Well, minus almost getting hit by a car (totally my fault) I had an incredible workout. Apparently, I lack the perception needed to safely run in downtown.
When I finished my workout, I sat on the floor of my apartment, muscles aching, short of breath, decently sure I would die due to lack of lung capacity and I suddenly felt really proud.
I had physically pushed my body past its predetermined limits, but it didn't seem like that should be a feat. I spent 2 years mentally pushing myself way beyond my limits. And I survived... I think.
So why am I shying away from my writing? I spend 8.5 hours a day (well 7.5 if you count lunch) writing about marketing hoopla. I come home at night and spend time blogging about all the nonsensical mess floating around in my head. Why can't I make myself practice writing?
I'm so green in the art of creative writing (memoir, personal essay and fiction specifically) that I should be writing constantly. Yet I focus all of my creative energy on writing for monetary profit and mental release. I should be focusing my energy on perfecting my craft.
I'm paying $30,000 a year to do just that, so why not milk every cent? Why not use this summer to create a stockpile of work, good, bad and ugly, so that when the school year begins, as it inevitably will, I have something to show for myself?
Guess it would have been helpful to have this discussion a couple months ago, right? Life lesson learned.
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