I am writing. I have written. I will be writing more.
The previous paragraph is self referential. I’m not telling you that I’ve been writing somewhere else and keeping it from you. The promise at the end of the first paragraph only guarantees that I’ll have written this paragraph and not anything more. Though I live in hope.
In the past I’ve had varying success at not laying blame on any particular aspect of my life that would have send me off my writing track. Leaving the blame squarely in my lack of commitment felt truer and more motivating. I can’t say doing so has been either.
Karen scrubbed the buttery velvet pile bordering a worn area on the arm of a Victorian settee. She pretended the exposed warp was a continent in a sea of ice-slick green. Then decided it was the ocean instead.