As the lengthening of the summer days comes to an end, my hope is to also bring to an end my unproductivity as a writer. All my projects are languishing due to a myriad of factors, the ramping up of all the external issues (the day job primarily) that plague those who wear more hats than they have the capability to juggle, the balancing act of family commitments, and minefields of internal failings. For those for whom writing is not a sustainable side gig, the day job imposes its own set of priorities. Some of these can be deferred, but not indefinitely. Family issues rear their heads in many ways, none of which can be avoided without significant consequences, primarily negative. We can’t all live like hermits in a shack, avoiding contact with the outside world. Doing so sounds appealing until we consider the last guy to do this, the Unabomber, lost all his marbles and spent all his time trying to destroy the world he so steadfastly rejected. That said, I totally understand the value of a locked door. The safe space where the mind can churn on thoughts and ideas, dipping into dreams and reflection. Yet we mustn’t get lost in the garden of our imagination. Still, behind that locked door lurks the specter of internal demons, jealous little shits that demand attention in their own, often self-destructive ways.

Ah yes, the excuses are plentiful – but just as irrelevant. Sit down and just write the fucking story. For God’s sake, just finish it already. Everyone’s tired of hearing about how the story is supposed to end. They want to read how it ends.

But time goes on, slipping away like a salamander on a hot deck. Fleeting and impossible to capture, a not-so-subtle reminder that the world we’re inhabiting is spinning onward, hurtling through the microseconds in a steady blur of activity, even when we’re sitting on the deck smelling the sweet scent of honeysuckle and the buzzing of bees.

The days are getting longer, but only for a couple more days, then begins the slow, inexorable retreat toward the winter’s solstice and the long cold nights of winter.

So get up, grab that story, and write onward fearlessly and without pause until you have an ending. Then put it down and prepare for the slog of revision. That process where you murder your darlings and rescue the plot and characters from the potholes of your own prose.