cohdra/Morguefile.com

Water bottle topped off with a scoop of Gatorade. Check. Combo lock. Check. Gym bag. Check. Coffee pot turned back on. Check. Everything seemed to be in place and I could go to the gym with the satisfaction of knowing when it was all over with, I would be healthier, my muscles would be leaner, and somewhere from within the deep recesses of my anatomy, endorphins would influence perceptions of my life for several hours to come. To top it off, I could come home to a hot coffee pot and have one more java as I begin my next set of exercise.

Writing.

Articles need to be written. Blog needs to be updated. Sipping my coffee while plunging elbow deep into research or working my next piece only inspires my muse and calms the trolls. I am a writer. I reflect on my life and what has brought me to this place. I realize that no matter what I’ve done, or what trails I’ve travelled, everything always brings me back to my Bic pen and college ruled steno notebooks. The computer is tool, a necessary evil in today’s society. I know I can write software for them. That’s great. But no amount of technology will ever replace the magic that comes from putting words down in ink onto paper.

No matter what I do, I can’t ever really truly get away from it. Yet, like all writers, I have times when I don’t feel like writing anything.

Tonight is one of those nights. The clocks have been turned back and the kids were sleepy an “hour” earlier than normal. I need to write some technical type articles in the next couple of days and I’m not really in the mood to do it. They’ll get done because they have to be. I’m a writer. I write when I don’t feel like it. I write even I think my readers will think it’s stupid or a waste of cyberspace. I write in the face of possible rejection. It’s O.K. because I’m a writer. It’s what I do. Whether it be the column, the blog, articles on body parts, dog urine, or Visual Basic.NET, or writing because the life of my newest characters are at stake, I write, because it’s what I’m meant to do.

Then it hit me one night as I collapsed into bed exhausted from working “split shifts” all week (write when kids are off to daycare/school, then kinda-sorta write after day care, fix kids dinner, homework, baths, quality time, bedtime…then writing till I pass out), I wonder if writers have one of those ‘do it’ bumper stickers.

I chuckled as my body molded to the bed and thought to myself, “Writers do it in their pajamas.”