The hardest part of writing, as fellow writers on here can attest, is actually parking your butt down and moving your hands across that keyboard. Whenever I think too much about the grand plan, I get stultified. So I make a deal with myself to write for a short while, say 30 minutes or until my cup of coffee is finished, and I don’t worry about how much gets done or even how good it is.
I remember one road trip my family and I took when I was a young teenager. I don’t remember if we were going to Hoover Dam or the Great Salt Lake, or some other unordinary landmark, but the drive was long. Every so often, like whac-a-mole automatons, someone would pipe up and ask my Uncle Tim how much longer we had to go. “We’ll get there when we get there,” he said, smiting one of us back into his hole of patience. At some point, at some lonely gas station in the desert, we stopped talking about how much longer we had to go. We began sharing jokes, stories, riddles–and we had a blast.
When we got to where we were going, we spent 30 or 40 minutes, no more, taking pictures before hopping back into the SUV. As I said, to this day, I still don’t remember where we went exactly, but I do remember that rare car ride–when we had all surrendered to the journey. And I came to realize later in life, that like writing a book, it’s the car ride itself that you need, not the disembarkation.
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