I just looked at the 2nd writing prompt and realized I never got back to the 1st. And this is a pattern. My intention is good, but my attention is scattered. And I am a master procrastinator, whittling away my time at niggling little tasks that do matter, but not enough to consume all my days and nights.
In fact, I am at this very moment procrastinating — this time by writing to an overdue prompt, when I should be getting up and outside for my daily walk before the scant Alaskan daylight is gone. Oops: Too late. It’s dark. (But that won’t stop me. I will walk in the dark.)
And here is another pattern: I put off doing things that I absolutely love, that give me joy — and why?
The why is the unanswerable question whose answer wouldn’t matter anyway. Spending time answering “Why?” is just another form of procrastination.
So I’m going to get up now and put on my gear and go outside in the cold and dark and walk.
And that’s a pretty good metaphor for what I must do to write: Get my gear together and just start, with or without clarity. Walking in the dark is easier the farther you go, because your eyes take in all the ambient light reflected off the snow. The way literally appears before you.
Put one foot in front of the other, one word after the next. Before long, the steps are easier, the words flow. You’re in the zone: walking, breathing, seeing, thinking — writing.