NaBloPoMo prompt for Friday, December 6, 2013:
What do you wish you had more time to do each day?
(Tada! Post done.)
Yesterday, when I peeked at the prompts for some inspiration, I noticed today’s prompt, too, and I knew it was one I wanted to answer. But as the day went on, I couldn’t remember if the prompt was “What do you wish you had more of?” or what you see above, and so I pondered both. Of course, my mistaken question is also easy to answer: time. But then I considered that if I had more self-discipline, I would have more time. Or if I had a little less selflessness, I might carve out some time for myself… but that wasn’t the question.
I do wish I had more time each day to write — because yesterday’s 10-minute write-up isn’t my usual modus operandi. Writing is more than typing words on a page. It requires quiet — or at least the ability to quiet the brain. It is reflecting, finding inspiration, and embracing it. It is brainstorming and hurriedly putting pen to paper to jot down an idea before it is lost. It is capturing insight, revelation, that aha moment. It is giving up on an idea and then tackling some menial task or exercise — to find that some better concept has taken its place. It is living an experience twice — once in reality and once in its mindful write-up. It is coaxing a phrase into a sentence, a paragraph, a post. It is an expression of the heart, a task of the mind, a true labor of love. It is frightening. Cathartic. Invigorating. Challenging.
I feel like I put a little piece of me in everything I write.
Right now, writing feels like life’s guilty pleasure. I carve out little bits of time when I think no one will need me — and write. I hope no one wakes up early or comes home suddenly or asks me what I did with my day… because it is hard to explain the passion to write or the time it takes to do it well when its aim isn’t a paycheck. (It is amazing how quickly I can clean up a kitchen and make a meal to conceal how much time I’ve spent blogging.)
I would love to write without feeling guilty. To me, if I had time to write, it would mean that someone else values my writing enough to grant me time to do it. (It might even mean they’re paying me to do it.) It also would mean that I have figured out how to balance life. But I am somewhat torn. My lack of time sometimes wrings words out of me that might not otherwise escape. At times that deadline pressure — or lack of time — and the stress associated with it is what forces the thoughts to come. I seem to write more the busier I am. Maybe words are like diamonds, formed under high pressure and then unearthed…
Maybe less pressure and more time isn’t in the best interest of my writing. But a girl can wish…