If we are surrounded by chaos, noise, clutter, demands of our time, responsibilities to own, duties to honor, rules to follow, we might say that there is no room for writing, no room in our minds to create anything worth reading.
We might say that. I know I have. I fantasize about being out there, completely isolated, riding the wave of my own creativity to see what works of art, what masterpieces materialize.
We might say that. I do say that. But that doesn't make it true. For me, it's justification for the apparent unwillingness at the time to work hard to get what I want. I say "at the time" because I'm not always so quick to make excuses.
I once wrote the majority of a novel lying on my stomach in our long hallway in the front of my child's door. Why? Because said child had a couple of months where sleep was not an option and would spend a couple of hours a night trying to sneak back out into the living room. My job was to make sure this didn't happen. So, while this surprisingly difficult battle of wills played out, I wrote a novel. I rode my own wave.
I often go back to that experience and tell myself that if I can write under those circumstances, then I can write anywhere at any time.
So why don't I?
Why don't you?
What's your excuse?
What's the real reason?
I don't know. But for me I think this trip to paradise may afford an opportunity to find out.
Thanks for reading. Off to write?
P.S. Just saw a whale jump about halfway out of the water. I want THAT kind of will.