My alarm went off at 5:45am. I hit snooze too many times. Got up just after six but I didn’t want. I really didn’t want to.
I didn’t feel more tired than usual. I just felt like I didn’t want to write.
This is a first. Ten days in and I heard a voice in my head asking ‘why’?
Why are you doing this? Getting up so early? You could be sleeping. You could not have this pressure to finish this novel. What’s the rush? Again, why are you doing this?
Yesterday morning I was feeling a little disconnected. Lost, maybe. This morning clearly wanted to be owned by my self critic. Only he asks ‘why’ and answers himself with actual reasons. Try-and-stop-me reasons.
I made myself get to my office. Put my booty to the chair. My fingers on the keyboard. And write.