I write for the sake of writing.

Writing. An unsurmountable mountain of books and scripts.

Written words blown away, flying everywhere, anywhere. At low heights, at high distances. Not anymore mine to take.

Words. Yours to make. Cherish, sob, laugh, snort. Criticize. Share.

Writing. An art that no artist can stand.

Limbo. At limbo we stand. Writers can't be artists, writing can't be serious.

We're art, we're serious.

We're more than a profitable product, we're a piece of art, all based on likes and dislikes.

Work. Never ready, never perfect, never mine.

Writing. Art that guides all others. Should be the first but always comes third.

That's why it's never done.

How do I sail this ship?

My head pounds. I need a break.

I'm done after full eight hours of work in front of my laptop. Intense work. Rewarding? Not sure yet.

There's a lot to do still, and I wish I could push through another thirty minutes, but I won't. I can't. I refuse to burn out again. I need to disconnect, and I need this right now.

Love for the craft feels very different than other types of love.

Love for my corporate day job, for instance. I get to edit stories, write emails, learn about storytelling. But is it true love though?

How will love feel when I get paid for novels and screenplays? Will love sustain? I am not sure, I do not know yet.

I sigh, accepting my decision with no regrets, and logoff. That's it for me: zero screen time until tomorrow. Another day wrapped up with no capacity to bring my novels to life.

Life is real. Writing feels real but sometimes it is not.

Woman, immigrant, wife, mom.

Human.

Solid corporate worker transitioning to an artistic space, a space I struggle to recognize as mine because it was always inside but I never owned.

How do I steal time?

Wake up early? I barely sleep through the night.

Writing groups? No sitter available to do this right.

Sit down at night and type? My ass was stuck ten hours on a chair.

Push it through and get it done? There was a time...

What is writing if not love?

I can't let this go, I won't give up until I win this fight.

I breathe through exhaustion, pushing yourself out of the way to sail this ship.

Plain sail to find balance within. Yoga, chanting, meditation, rest, running, diet.

Trim sails to reconcile everything else to fit a writing routine somewhere. Build an essential routine.

Every day? Every other day? Once a week?

How many minutes? Should I forget time?

What about word count? Pleasure and passion? Coaching and editing lessons?

Dynamics shifts without warning. I find myself in the middle of a turmoil, my broken ship caught between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea, all at water, no rescue boat.

I breathe, I'm alive. Standing to rearrange this ship.

Somehow I manage to shape my writing arrangements just the right size to fit my upheaved life.

Sailing close to the wind.

This is the only way that I can turn the corner on writing.

"You must be crazy to spend years of your life creating something that people will consume in five minutes."

"But they will remember every little bit of it for the rest of their lives."