Ahem. I'm doing it. When life has gotten crazy and I quit writing, my life doesn't fall apart quickly. I do notice how much better I feel at the page. And that is the phrase I use when journaling.
At times I quit because my living situation doesn't permit me a table or desk or I just am not able to go seek writing places out in the world. Other times I squished myself into a terrible existence for the sake of someone else, giving up that which I value most. Still other times, I simply don't. I get too caught up in myself. My woes. My addicting murder sagas or sagas down by the ocean, the life I don't have.
I do feel at home when I'm writing. A-ha's come right through me. Yet at times it does take a lot of effort to get back in the habit. I have to make myself take time to journal three pages. Make myself write that poem about the brilliant red leaves that have fallen half away. Yet I am richly rewarded. Even in those moments when my life does suck, is failing miserably and all I can do is keep the pen moving about the next bad thing I'm thinking about myself.
I remember in February, 1996 I stayed at a Pension on Avda Rambla in Barcelona. I only stayed for three days. I was by myself, perhaps in the beginning of my third month in Europe by myself for the winter. I remember being so happy my room had a writing table. It had a toilet and a sink and a medium-lumpy standard bed and a window that looked out into a dark hallway. Yet it brought me bliss to see that table. That trip started to define me as a writer. Never mind I had a bachelor of arts in writing by age 22. Oh, that's right, I was only 25/26 on that trip. (I'm 40 now and chuckling about my youthfulness.)
I also remember how I loved my cabana in Placencia, Belize. This was the only time I overslept on a trip. I rebooked my flight to leave the next day. I had three days before I met my group of 32 to sail on four katamarans for eight days. Bliss! I had no plans before meeting them. Miraculously, the man I sat next to on the plane right from Houston to Belize City suggested I get a puddle jumper down to Placencia. So I did. I had no plan. As I was riding in a van down the dirt road after the plane touched down, someone told me about huts without electricity or running water for $100/night. Too much for me. I was astounded I found a spacious cabana for $55/night. And it had a writing table. Ah. It was about 10 feet from the ocean. I woke up each morning and did tai chi ch'ih out on the sand. Divine. And I wrote. I was 29 then.
My life is more beautiful and more full of music when I take the time to write. I aspire to whip some things into shape so I can be a more serious writer, to allow myself to take off with my ideas. Sometimes I'm simply afraid to even try so I let myself get caught up in the rest of my life, thinking it more importantly needs to be tended to. Another beautiful time in life was when I rented out a writing studio and spent some serious time in it. I didn't produce any big projects. I settled myself into myself more as a writer. Ah, a beautiful life.