Middle of november, 2009. NaNoWriMo was in full speed. I'd had the worst life of my year, emotionally, and it wasn't going to get better - I know that in hindsight. Writing wasn't easy. Easier than it is now, but it was difficult.
One day I ended up in a coffee house, waiting for a friend to arrive. I found myself without paper and pen, maybe I had left it at home on a conscious or unconscious whim. But now, here, I wanted to write. I went to the coffeeshop girl, asking her if she had a paper and could lend me a pen for a while. She had a pen, but the only paper was an envelope.
I took the envelope and carefully ripped it open. Then I proceeded, with miniscule hand writing, and wrote more than a thousand words before my friend arrived.
School morning, in my early teens. I hurry through my morning chores, stand stomping at the computer so it can open up and allow me to type out some three, or maybe five, minutes of writing before school. Add another snarled curse, another tear hidden from a betrayer's view to the scene that I can't get out of my head.
Some moments define us. I have struggled so many times to get a few words typed out, yet these memories are what stands out.
Writing isn't a chore that must be done. It's a need, just like sex. We can plan for it, take the time to get the moment right. Yet, the stolen kisses in the morning keep us on edge. The impulsive touches in a coffeeshop can be more satisfying.
Don't tie yourself to a certain routine. Flexibility always makes things more interesting. Literary.