Three red notebooks, one yellow one, and the black one. Each one of these holds my income in the balance. The red ones are my books, each one a full-time commitment that needs a marriage license to prove I’m not writing around. The yellow one is the oft-neglected collection of lit mag and competition works. It’s been through some battles, but I’ve lost too many of them. The black one is what you see on Mondays and Wednesdays. It’s the home of the one page shorts, the land of experiment and trials.
Yet with each of these comes guilt. One day or one hour devoid of even one of these can be painful. How, I wonder, can I expect to eat if there’s no progress with this one or that one? How will my peers know I’m anything more than an impostor if I have nothing to show for it?
There will be days when you don’t write. There will be days when those notebooks cry in their holding cell of a bookshelf. There will be days when all you think about is writing but never actually do.
That’s no big deal. Just write anyway.
Just write, my friends.