I Can’t Get No

Satisfaction.

ANNOUNCEMENT: I am writing today!

Ahem, where are my gold stars and pats on the back? Where are my throngs of fans? Where is my Pulitzer?

Most days feel like a complete wash. I’m sure many artists experience this. I’ll sit down to write and those cursed Facebook-Instagram-Gchat notifications start dinging away, poking and prodding my focus until it’s vulnerable to hijacking by Downton Abbey and photographs of my cats. Or, I’ll be on a roll, actually squeezing out a coherent page only to re-read it an hour later and trash it.

When morale is low (and let’s face it; for writers, it often is) I must remember that all of my work is sacred. The mass deletions, trashed documents, error-laden blog posts, rambling journal entries–they are baby steps whether they see the (public) light of day or not.

All work, even bad work, is good. Crumpled pages and rejection letters push forward like sapling tree roots: unseen and tiny, but foundational and strengthening. Progress feels slow because the roots are fighting through dirt, moving in the dark. They’ll hit jarring concrete blocks and boulders, but if I keep them moving, they’ll find a way. After awhile they’ll get better and thicken and hug those rocks as anchors instead of roadblocks. I’m hoping to grow strong enough to bear fruit. Pulitzer prize-winning lemons, even. (For lemon bars! With a lemon cocktail)!

This year I vow to befriend Patience and Persistence. And break up with Hulu (yeah, right).

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