the pain of the cure

I've heard it said that drug addicts will not personally seek help until the pain of continuing their addiction is greater than the pain of the cure. So you can lead a horse to water but unless the horse is dying of dehydration, it won't drink.

I was thinking about this yesterday as I struggled with my lack of writing. I've been on Christmas break since the 17th [granted we were out of town until the 19th for our anniversary] and I had promised myself that I would write during the break. Last semester was insane and I seem to be attempting to kill myself with my schedule for next semester so this three week break is kind of the all or nothing for four months. But I wasn't writing.

To be honest, I haven't written anything in a few months really and while Sam has maintained his patient spot at the back of my mind, I was having a hard time making time in my do-nothing vacation days to even make an attempt. I had even been blessed recently with a completely new idea that latched onto my imagination in an infuriating way that suggested exciting possibilities while posing heaps and heaps of questions that I still don't know how to answer yet. I had purchased a new notebook on the last day of finals for the express purpose of devoting it to this new idea, a ritual I seem to have, but I hadn't dared put pen to paper yet. The idea of sitting down and going to the task has been weighing on my mind the past two days like a guilty and disappointed conscience. Yesterday, the mental torment finally reached a level that I could not stand any longer. I tried to avoid it with internet distractions and other things but I could settle on anything and finally I pulled out the notebook and began.

I just finished reading Little Women for the first time [I know, what's wrong with me?] and Amy's assertion that talent is not genius and one cannot make it so has been haunting my brain, further undermining my small attempts to write but I am now determined to set out on this new idea whether or not it proves to be genius because really, if I'm writing with the intent of being hailed a genius I'll never write anything worth reading!

If any of you are in a similar fix, whether it be motivation to write or some other such difficulty, take heart and remember that we can only take one step at a time and that step doesn't have to be perfect. We'll make mistakes, heaven knows my writing is littered with them, but life wouldn't be worth living if we got everything just right the first time.

Goodness, that's a sermon isn't it? Well, in an attempt to lighten the mood, and perhaps make myself more accountable for this new goal by sharing it with you, I'll give you a bit of what I wrote yesterday. It's not much but feel free to give feedback.

--  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --

     The excitement that had flashed across my skin moments before was gone and I felt cold in its absence. I stared at the mark, my first, nestled next to the freckle on my left wrist that Gareth always said looked like a bean though I said it was a butterfly. I could feel the mark being etched into my eyes but I had stopped seeing it.
     Don't panic.
     Breath in.
     Don't panic.
     Breath out.
     Don't panic.

     "Mona. Mona are you done yet?" Lauren called from the hallway, banging on the door and making me jump. I choked back a scream and instinctively clasped my right hand over the mark on my wrist, glancing at the door handle. Locking it had always been habit, one that I was now more than grateful for as I saw it being turned back and forth.
     Don't panic.
     "Other people need to wash too, you know!"
     I could hear my sister's foot tapping on the other side of the door, impatient as ever. I dressed as fast as my clumsy hands would allow, tripping into my leggings and trying to fit my head down the wrong hole in my shirt and tunic.
     "I'm coming!" I cringed at the tremble in my voice and almost reached out as if to catch it back but my sister had sharp ears.
     "Are you okay?" The question was four parts concern, one part suspicion. I wished she had kept yelling.
     In my hurry to open the door and escape an inquisition I knocked it into her, standing as she was a nose away from it.
     "I'm fine," I said, pushing past her with eyes down, tugging my sleeves down to my fingertips and willing my voice to be clear and unwavering. "Sorry about the door. Bathroom's all yours."