Way back, I thought having a diary would make me write. Back further, I thought having a crayon would make me draw. But it didn't. Not even a pink leather-bound diary with gold embossed carnations. Not even the coveted salt-water taffy blue crayon.
I never out-grew this delusion. It's like an embarrassing pink bunny suit that grows in perfect approximation with my skin and bones. I thought that having a blog would make me write.
Bzzt! Wrong.
Fellow writers, especially ye young, nothing can force you to write. Not even burgeoning inspiration. Writing is a physical action. And a voluntary one at that. Not a reflex. Not a heartbeat. Not a breath.
You may have oodles of inspiration, images, similes, characters, plot, description, all the clippings, glue, glitter and origami flowers - but it can all clog, roll up in a ball, and hardened if you do not pick up a pen, press it to the paper, and move it like you learned in Kindergarten.
Writing is a craft, it's a commitment, it's an exercise. You work, you exert, you sweat. It's move it or lose it. Condition yourself. Don't count on it to be easy or you'll drown.
Write. Review. Edit.
Only you can build your writing muscle.
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