I started it this morning; the setting of a habit.
I set the alarm for 6:00 and didn’t listen to the lazy fucker in my head who told me to sleep for just a few more minutes.
I sat down in the living room, alone, and wrote.
I saw no neighbours, only a few people riding bikes to work (I look out over a popular bike trail) and clouds at the base of the mountain I see outside my window, in the distance. I also write in the evening. I need to, what with the full-time job and all.
Next time though, I’ll turn the internet off as well.
This post was originally a comment on The Boy With The Hat, as an answer to the question “When do you write?”, now expanded somewhat.
I also answered the question “Why do you write?”, over on Daniel J Davis’s blog with the following:
Honestly? I mean that rare, real kind of honesty we see so little of these days: I write because I think I’m good at it. I think that if I do this enough, one day people will pay me for it. It goes hand in hand with the sense of accomplishment that I think is the real reason so many people play video games (you complete a level and your sense of accomplishment is tickled).
I wrote a bit as a kid and a teacher said it was good. I then wrote more and my friends said it was good.
I want more of that. That’s why I write. I don’t think I have anything meaningful to say and I don’t need to vent or express my philosophies. I just want that pat on the back.
Now you know.
What I really want to know, dear blog reader, is why you read the books you do. What, for instance, made you decide to read the book you are currently reading?