The muse wakes early in this house, and I have learned a lot in the last 9 days. Here I was, simply wanting to get into ‘good habits,’ and write something – anything – every day. Oh – and exercise. Well – I am proud of myself – I have done both.
I thought writing something every day would be tough… it was work, right? Good work habits are hard to forge, so I believed I was in for a daily battle with myself. Yet… no lazy couch potato, or evil naysayer, raised their ugly heads.
So, either I am missing something… or writing isn’t WORK.
Or – shock, horror – I love to work!
Naaaah… that’s not possible. Got to be something else.
This morning, it hit me, right between the eyes. I’ve always known that I was supposed to write; that I was missing my calling when I didn’t. And here’s the proof.
Writing IS work. But writing is a joy to me, so the fault must lie in my understanding of what work is.
I have loathed working for other people all my life. But writing is my passion, and, suddenly I realize that ‘work’ is not a dirty word.
I choose, however, to tell myself that I’m going to CREATE instead.
Why tempt fate?