"What do you carry closest to your heart? What pulses at your mind and makes your fingers twitch? What makes you laugh loudly to yourself or cry silently in a corner?
All those things are real and all are begging expression. Pick one and begin."
For a while, I've been writing whatever came to my head--and that isn't wrong--but it also doesn't have a purpose that I recognise, and such a faith in one's imagination is not always safe. I'm sure it will all make sense some day, but for my everyday purposes, it must be realised that I'm not always inspired like that. I need practice, so that when I am inspired, I will be trained to handle that sort of . . . crisis:)
Sir Walter Scott started writing at 4:30 a.m. when he moved to Abbotsford, and Ray Bradbury writes every day for at least two hours, in the morning (starting at 9 a.m., though; shows Americans must be at least a tad bit more sane than those crazy Scots). I'm not sure I could handle that type of routine. I do write personal reflections in a journal, almost every night and sometimes during the day, but it is hardly something I keep up very well as a routine . . .
I do try, normally, to write a page every day, but with no specific time set aside for it--my life does not cater to routines. Normally, though, it is just about as difficult to find something set in my head to write about as it is to find time to not feel guilty about writing.
It isn't that writing is work. That is what it sounds like from this post. What I mean is that I've got something inside me trying to force its way out, and I have no certain means of expression for it. That's difficult, my friend.
So perhaps I really will write what is close to my heart. Then we will all see what happens. I have a feeling I'll be posting less of them, though. How very awkward. I hope they turn out alright and don't make me seem a fool for writing woodenly.
But let not my pessimism be untoward! I can't NOT write. I may as well practice here as anywhere.