I’ve spent a lot of time lately attempting to form beneficial habits, hence the small flurry of cooking and gym-related posts.
And I’ve been realizing that when you do something a lot, the activity, whatever it is, begins to fit into your life in a different way. It becomes both less of a big deal and more of one; less because you do it so often that it’s routine, more because you affirm the importance of the activity with the time you devote to it.
A few years back, I railed against the notion that Real Writers Write Every Day; as though the numerous folks advocating the practice were, collectively, The Man, out to oppress me with their fascist ideas, man.
Well, for the last little while, I actually have been writing every day, for at least half an hour. Half an hour! It’s nothing. It’s a mere bagatelle, as my mom would say. And yet even that tiny amount of time is keeping the world of the book I’m working on nearer, significantly reducing my writing commute.