Why I don't often write remains intimately tied to the new beginnings brought on by my second-born, Josiah. It isn't an evil or an ill. It is just an adjustment. I have located my most favored writing apparatus in the basement of our abode, a place I rarely venture these days. I should seek some resolution of this issue, but I haven't the heart or the time. Physical ailments have cropped up of late as well, which are not welcome, unlike my new son.
Whatever semblance of a routine I had developed was all but annihilated by the time spent welcoming the boy into the world, and I am only now returning to the daily practices I formerly knew well. Among these is work, which once again steals away the majority of my day. In light of the struggles I continually announce, I have set myself to the task of reading through my first two books. I am thinking that I will, instead of writing the third, spend my time re-working the first book. This is something I can endeavor to do without the struggle of creating a new plot line.
The coming months will tell whether or not this had been a wise decision, but I hope it will do me well to reintroduce myself to my own story in the way I have chosen to tell it. Also, I hope to introduce a wealth of improvements I've been mulling over in my mind.
I tell myself every day that I am a writer, but there is no action to prove it. I say again that I must remedy this oversight and push myself a bit harder to make a reality of what is in my heart.
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