Eight years ago, I started writing this blog. Year after year, I’ve found myself repeating like a broken record, “I need to take my writing more seriously” or “I need to write more consistently.” Last month, I made the decision to write 2000 words every day. Guess how many I wrote? Possibly about ten thousand words. Across the entire month. Everything seemed to get into the way. After struggling for the last week with being unable to focus, I decided to pick up The War of Art by Steven Pressfield last weekend; I read bits of it in the past, but I need to read it again. And guess who procrastinated reading that? You got it! I did, until yesterday when I forced myself to read it.
Désiré’s Word Vomit
I’ve glossed over the last year of my life, and I’ve seen mostly struggle. I’ve had a couple of great days and those were amazing days; however, most of my last year has been full of pain on levels that I’d rather not describe. How I’ve managed to go through this with my sanity just about in check, I do not know. Does anything come easy? Doubtful.