December 1, 2016 I made a choice. To be fair, I decided earlier that week that it was time for me to take my writing to the next level. I vowed to attempt to wake early and get to my computer a wee bit before the family rose and try to get a few words that were rattling around in my brain and fold them into a story I had been toying with off and on for some time.
The spark was magnificent. As the words were exploding from my fingertips I realized, in those moments, I wrote without guilt. It was my time. My house was silent, the only creature stirring was myself and my faithful, yet annoying Dachshund, Dash. She was snoozing louder than I like to admit for her sake while snuggled behind me acting as a heating pad on the chilly Arizona morning. Yes, you may laugh it was about forty-five degrees.
As I sat weaving my tale and when the rustling began another room and the house began to wake, I knew soon I would be on the world’s clock. I scurried to pump out a few more words, and finally I was torn away from the images in my head and left longing for more. The remainder of that first of December two thousand and sixteen I though back to my morning rise and I could not shake the story. It was there, it begged me to return to it. That is when I decided to do it again, wake early I mean.
Thus day two of my discipline, I struggled to rouse myself at what I believed to be an ungodly hour of 7:30 am. Before you tisk or shake your head at my idea of ungodly hour, you must understand I am one that is up until the wee hours toiling away at my work. I often am scratching my head when the sensible people are all yawning and longing for the siren song of their pillows. For me, waking early to do this thing, this writing was a true struggle.
However, once I sat and the blinking curse was moving rapidly across my screen, it was exhilarating. I forgot about the hour. I felt alive in those moments that slipped too quickly by and myself again, another day I said to myself I will try again tomorrow. I woke a third day, albeit not without a good fight from my covers to keep their hold on me. It was not long after this third day that found myself awakening without the aid of any of the several alarms I had set.
I discovered over those days of December, a month that shows no mercy, that my words words became stronger, the story clearer, and my heart happier for it. One may say, that because I have gained so much joy from it that it is simply a discovery, not truly a discipline, but let me assure you, it is indeed a discipline.
I set a course that day, an undertaking of some magnitude. I was not just writing a story but rewriting my own. I fight the same demons as you. Those fears that creep in as we undertake something new. In this new discipline, I took on all the frightening things of my mind, those things horror stories are made of and began to open myself up to them. Fears so deeply rooted that I am still not sure how to battle them. It is my discipline that will see me through.
Each day I use this discipline to chip away at the fear of failure, self doubt and worse yet of disappointment. Inside my choice to wake and make something of my longing to put pen to page by means of the art of discipline I achieve in creating a mind of can do’s verses the devils of can nots. A novel, a picture book, poem or any form I can put out my truth, enables me to hone my skill and take on the ugly giant that is lurking about the recesses of my mind seeking to hold me down again and steal away this hope, this thing of joy, my dream.
I will succeed dear giant of doom, because each day I practice the art of discipline and you shall shrink eventually you shall be cast into the void that is prepared for you by the art of discipline.
Ia m stronger. I am a writer. I finally have the piece to my missing puzzle, and no more will I be held down. I will write. It is after all, my art.