Writing when you really don’t want to fucking write.

I really don’t want to fucking write right now. But I am.

I’m writing precisely because I don’t want to. Because my mind is screaming at me to do anything else.

Take a nap. Eat. Read. Look up the video of that pop star you saw a couple months ago. How’d the Orioles do? Stretch. Organize the room. Do anything but fucking write.

Why is it such a big deal that I write anyway? This is a shit entry. I’m a shit writer. It won’t do anyone any good.

But I’m here anyway.

I read The War of Art recently. Pressfield talks about the Resistance. That nefarious, omnipresent specter that through sweet talk or kneecapping will keep me from doing my Work. Keep me from writing.

Ever since, my Resistance seems to have become aware that my attention has turned to it. And it’s doing what any good despot does when threatened.

It gets nasty. Real nasty.

It’s reminding me whose boss. Reminding me why I need it. The poison it drips in my ear gets more potent. Its screams of rage become deafening.

So maybe that’s why I’m here. To say fuck you, Resistance.

To say, yeah, you’ve had me by the balls for thirty-three years but not for this thirty minutes. You’ve scared me into stopping every meaningful writing project I’ve ever started. You’ve bullied me to think that only losers perform, plus I’d never be good at it anyway. You’ve put your arm around me and whispered sweetly in my ear that Art just isn’t my thing.

And I believed you. For thirty-three years I believed you.

But not for this thirty minutes. Fuck you for this thirty minutes. This thirty minutes is mine fucker.

And so I sit here with my chest puffed out, pecking away. But about what? What important message will this thirty minutes I’m stealing from Resistance mean?

Probably nothing. But maybe something. Maybe everything.

Maybe this is what it’s about. Maybe this is what Art is. Maybe it’s sitting down and saying, fuck you.

FUCK.YOU.

I’m writing. It might be shitty, but I’m writing.

And when it’s done maybe it’ll never see the light of day. Maybe I’ll publish and it’ll be read by everyone. Maybe no one.

But that’s not the point.

The point is that I’m here. That I sat down at this little wood desk in the middle of the woods on a rainy day after pacing around the kitchen wondering what the fuck I was going to do with the rest of my day, and decided to write. Write instead of everything else.

This is going to be a battle isn’t it? It’s going to feel like this most days, isn’t it?

Good.

If it feels like this every day the Artist in me, the Writer in me, is going to be one hard motherfucker.

That’s what he’s going to need to be.

He won’t be pleasant. But no one else needs to know him. He’s here for one reason: To kick the Resistance’s ass. To do the Work and create Art.

He’s here to take whatever you have to give and leave it with the world. Even if it’s a shitty five-hundred words. He’s here to pull them out of you at whatever the cost.

Because why the hell else are you here if not to leave an impression? Leave a mark, no matter what the size. Even if it’s under a rock in the woods.

So what’s why I wrote today. I really didn’t want to, but I did.