I’ve never been good at baseball. There is something about having to do everything in the sport with some extension of self that throws all my depth perception off. But someone didn’t tell the cosmos that, and as a result, 2014 has spent the last eleven months or so throwing me various curve balls. I haven’t been beaned *yet* but it has left me wondering if there is a bigger bat somewhere.
Chances are decent anyone alive has had similar experiences at some point in their life. When this happens, people tend to react in a number of ways. For whatever reason, I shift down, refocus and swear to all the powers in the universe that I will not be stopped.
I may have a *little* bit of stubbornness in me.
But about a month ago, when I was sitting 36 hours before reconstructive surgery on my hand, I had a realization. In the face of everything, my refuge has been my writing. I’m not published, not even
done drafting, but those closest to me know that this thing that entered my life isn’t just a hobby. I have proven it to them by utilizing my writing time by writing, by sharing with them the goals that I have, by letting them see me struggle to recognize a setback isn’t a knockout.
There are many people in the world for whom writing is a hobby. I’m thrilled for each and every one of them. People need hobbies for sanity. I read as my hobby – it brings me peace and relaxation and fills my sanity tank.
For writing to be more than a hobby, it requires more than a hobby. We are entering the holiday season when parties and presents and chocolates and movies can overtake our lives. Some of this is good some of the time. But habits are temperamental. Our bad habits cling tight even when we think they faded away long ago, and our good ones can slip away like a snowflake in the wind. Productivity will probably decrease, but to keep writing as a habit requires something, no matter how small it may seem.
How do you keep consistent when life isn’t?