I'm never not writing, you know. Even when I breeze past this blog every day for weeks without giving it so much as a sidelong glance. Even when I let my pet-project manuscripts languish on my desktop — or worse, in the depths of my iMac's complicated e-filing system.
I'm always writing lists, notes, business emails, personal emails, personal blogs, journal entries, Facebook/Twitter/LinkedIn updates, rough story ideas, and — of course — large word collections (aka articles, texts, and books) commissioned by outside entities (aka paying clients).
The whole writing various things for those outside entities is a good thing. In fact, it's THE thing, isn't it? I can say quite definitively that I do not wish to go without that.
But. I struggle with wanting to make more real time for the writing I want to do just because I want to do it. So today I did something I haven't in a very long time: I signed up for a writing class. A 12-weeker, besides! (Basically, it's an instructor-led critique group, so I'll get to really move on one of my YA novels.) I decided it's worth the investment because it sets me up to succeed in something done purely for myself. Because you'd better believe I will meet goals I've paid to declare.
And that, dear blog readers, is both trick AND treat for me.