I took the summer off. I thought I’d do more writing with more time. I kicked it instead.

I borrowed writing books from the library and read the good parts. I thought it’d make me a better writer.

I bought journals and expensive pens. It could aid me in my best writing if I had the best materials.

I decided to quit my day job. I knew it would make me commit to my inner writer if only I had single purpose.

I revised old writing. I thought it would produce new writing.

I meditated about writing. I was sure it would put me in touch with my writing if I were quiet enough.

I talked about writing, my love of it and its hardships. And I talked more.                   More still.

I had an idea to start a writer’s retreat. I felt it would make me a leader in writing, helping those poor souls like me.

I marveled at the powerful and committed writers I know. They would surely inspire me to write since they do it all the time.

I pulled out the pen. I flipped open a crisp, new journal. I plugged in my flash drive. I stared at the blank page, the pulsing cursor. And stared. And an idea hit me. JUST WRITE.

More time will not make me write. Sheer determination will. Being unemployed will not force me to write. It will just make me bitter and filled with impoverished thoughts. Pretty journals will not make me write. Shit will only look good on the outside, but I’ll still be empty on the inside. Talking about writing is… well, talk. Beating myself up about why I don’t write won’t make me a writer. Learning the lesson and moving about the page will. Salivating over other great writers and praying for osmosis won’t make me a better writer. Writing will. Pulling out a pen won’t make me a writer. Dedication to using it will.

Today, I get off my metaphorical ass and pick up where my daydreams about writing left off. Today, I don’t talk. I don’t meditate. I don’t revise. I don’t read. I don’t covet. I don’t guilt trip. I don’t punk out. I simply write. Writers write. Ideas to manifestation, word by word, delete to plot, ugly to truth, beginning to end. There are no blocks but self – meaning there are no blocks at all. There is only the time I make and it is always enough, even with a job, family, play dates, homework, getting dinner on the table, grading papers, and life whirling by. I am all I need. I am who I was waiting for. I’m here. Ready to write. And so it is.