This morning

Curled up in the accommodating chair-and-a-half in the east-facing front window of my home, through which comes the faint scent of petrichor from last night's rain and the bright glow of morning light as the sun valiantly tries to break through the clouds. I'm wearing my pajamas and thick, fluffy socks (it's chilly). In my lap is my computer, and I'm writing.

I've been (unofficially) participating in NaNoWriMo--the main reason I say 'unofficially' is that they require one to stick with the same novel for the entire month. While I understand the reason for this--the whole point, after all, is to FINISH a novel by the end of the month--MY main reason for participating is to get into the habit of putting my butt in the chair every day to develop the discipline of being a writer, not just dreaming or talking about it. As William Faulkner so perfectly put it; "Don't be a writer. Be writing."

For me so far, it seems that the first twenty minutes to half hour are spent farting around, trying to find a way in, looking for a window, a door, a crack in the walls that I can use to force entry, like breaking into a house. It's frustrating as hell. Those are the moments when the Inner Critic has a field day reminding me just how inadequate I am, how inexperienced, that nobody is ever going to want to read what I write, I’ll never get published, and so on and so on.

But then, something happens--I see a sentence I want to add to, or have an idea about a scene I want to write, and I'm off and running, usually 'waking up' a couple to three hours later with my daily goal met (or, more often, surpassed). The great thing about NaNoWriMo is that it doesn't give one the luxury of listening to the Inner Critic--those words have to be on the page by the end of the day, come hell or high water. In fact, I've gotten to the point where, when the Inner Critic whispers in my ear, "Nobody will want to read this. This is shit!" I reply, "Yeah, I know."--and keep writing. The funny thing is, once I get going, that Inner Critic shuts up right away--it's as if he knows that he can only keep me from writing--he can't stop me once I’ve begun.

And the best part is that it doesn’t feel like work. I can’t tell you how happy I am to be able to do this. I feel a deep sense of gratitude and joy for it all; the morning, the chair, the coffee, the freedom to order my life as I please and not according to someone else’s ideas of what or whom I should be. For this life.

What am I writing about? That's for another post. ;-)