I am cold this morning. Outside my window, the sky spits snow that doesn’t stick. Wind screams. Trees dance. Ravens catch the air drifts. Inside, a chill numbs my hands and makes me long to be anywhere else, but Tuesdays are the days I write in spite of myself.
My most recent book, the one I’ve been writing for months, isn’t good. I tried a new format and failed. The editing feels onerous, like I’m forcing something that refuses to work, and I’m having a crisis of confidence.
Yet here I am, writing again, because showing up matters.
Despite popular conviction, failure does not lead to success.
Work leads to success.
Diligence keeps the creative juice flowing.
Commitment opens the door to possibility.
There are no shortcuts.
There are good days and bad days and days that plod slowly from sunrise to sunset. Days when everything I write gets erased, days when it flows like some greater being is speaking through me and I am just a conduit.
We cannot control an outcome or make a masterpiece from desire alone. We can only control what we give to the process.
Do the work.
Eventually, the words we seek will make themselves known.