My mom told me I need to write more.
Since the pandemic started I’ve written a few essays, essays that my mom found rather moving. And I admit it felt really good to carve out time to write, something I used to do regularly in college and stopped when my projected educational path suddenly derailed and I didn’t know how to handle what happened or where I was going to go next. I found myself in a very comfortable and uncomplicated routine and it was so easy to do that then, well, think about my writing plans.
That was twelve years ago.
I have realized that there’s no perfect time to start anything new. Anytime I have ever though “oh, my life has quieted down a bit, I can probably start X without too much fuss” something would inevitably come up and I would shelve whatever thought I had because I believed I couldn’t handle more on my plate. That mindset has prevented me from doing a lot of things. There will never be a perfect time to write unless I make time. And if there are complications then I just have to make it work.
And there’s always unseen complications.
So that brings us here. I can’t promise you punch and pie. And I should stop thinking about an imaginary audience and just focus on putting words on the page.