“Why is it so hard,” a young writer asked me this morning, “to sit down and write? I can easily find fifteen minutes. Why do I resist?”

 

I’ve been asking that question for thirty years. In certain times, I embrace the writing. When I don’t feel pressured. When I am experiencing joy or strong emotion. When I am not stressed about my to-do list. When this open-hearted soul, the Dream Kid, comes out to play.

 

But I avoid Dream Kid. I am suspicious of her. I think I know more than she does. I fear I will be irresponsible in giving her a chunk of myself—even fifteen minutes. This was especially true over the last month, relocating home and office three hours southwest to the Oregon Coast, packing moving crates, hauling dressers and carpets and blankets and ladles. Could I drop the work and write? When I allowed it, yes.

 

Dream Kid helps me see the magic of sunset, blazing scarlet and tangerine. Dr. Codger, my other mode, makes sure I get my oil changed, brush my teeth, show up for work.

 

The shift is uncomfortable, even painful. But absolutely necessary. I must give over to it-—at the very least, for fifteen minutes of writing time every day.

 

That sun radiates surrender as light leaves the sky. Perhaps the sun, too, thinks he knows better and can do more without his counterpart. But he has learned a beautiful letting go, a trust of moon, beginning with a breathtaking transition.

 

This resistance is prickly, frustrating, excruciating, disturbing. It is perfectly normal. You can move through it.

 

At the other end is a celebration that transforms the sky.

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Grateful for my clients, for distance-learning, for all the support I received while undertaking a physical move. In appreciation, I'm offering free writing sessions through Thanksgiving.

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