Today was our quarterly Ozarks Writers League conference in Branson, but I didn’t come away with the usual refreshed batteries that I normally do. I would come home ready to tackle my book again because I found a spark or figured out away to write that particularly tough passage in just the right way; a pleasant side-effect of spending all day talking and learning about the writing process. But, like I said, that was not the case today.
I think that might have been because my Muse was on a winter hiatus. She seems to be pissed that I returned to work. We’ve only managed to produce about a page of manuscript together since my return, and frankly, I’ll probably end up trashing it. I wouldn’t say I have lost the desire to write, I just haven’t found the time.
That brings me to what I did find at this conference… a rededication; a new commitment to the art of writing. Now, some might say that this is semantics, but I beg to differ. This time there was no euphoric reaction to what I encountered at the conference, but more an acceptance and understanding of who I am. I am a writer. And if I want to continue to be a writer then I have to do what writers do, which is write. No excuses. If it is as important to me as I feel it is then I have to make time for it. If I have to give up other things, then that is what I have to do. I have stories that I want to tell the world, and there is only one way to make that happen.