Well, I've hit it--the wall, if you will, if there is one, it has been hit and I am, rather than charging through, laying content to play on this side of it.
It has been eleven days since I have posted a blog entry (I'm sure all of you, the readers I don't have, are anxiously awaiting more), and in those eleven days I have actually lost some of my total word count. On the plus side, I re-worked much of page one. I probably cut out 150 words, which were all superfluous. (Well, superfluous at best--plain bad at both worst, and most common probably.)
So, it's 12:41, I've wasted the last two hours (at least), and I'm sitting down to write, not knowing where I'm going. But, I'm writing. I'm writing and I'm putting down words--I'm planting a seed and raising a tree, that will someday become a large tree, which will someday become a log, and then become a log cabin for me (or, for Sammy) to dwell in for a time. Something not only built by my own two hands, but something tended, carefully created out of the smallest of something in the first place.
In some ways it is beautiful. In the reality of this moment, though, it is tiresome. I have any excuse you need: my long fingernails hit the keys funny, I should trim them. It is late, I should be in bed. My outline isn't in front of me, and I'll probably change this whole section anyway. I've waited 11 days, why not make it a round dozen? (And then, a baker's dozen? A fortnight?) Whatever the reasons, at some point my resolution has to be stronger than the cunning of my sloth. Tonight is a night where industry wins, though "industry" will probably be offended when I read back over what it creates and realizes the whole thing was a waste.
Still, it is a means to an end, or an investment in a future, for myself and my family and the Lord. I cannot imagine not fulfilling this gift--it will kill me if I cannot get words out beautifully.
Sammy, you better be worth it. (Patrick, you better be worth it.)
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