My mind wanders as I think about about Stephen Pressfield’s book The War of Art, which describes the inner battle the writer struggles with in their creative pursuits.
I look over to where my laptop lays and to my surprise I find an anaconda, seven and half feet in length with a circumference of thirteen inches, just sitting there with her mean yellow eyes looking deeply into my soul. The green scales coiling slowly. Asystole. My heart flatlines. Poof. This is how it ends, I think.
This is the scene I imagine at the thought of sitting down to type.
But as I ignore my lizard brain the fog clears and the sun comes up. I start to type and then the words start to pour. The sunbeams shine brighter, flower petals open; even the succulents seem happier.
This is the definition of winning I think. I look next to me and see a quote by Aldous Huxley
Do what you should do when you should do it, whether you feel like it or not.
We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence then is not an act, it is a habit.
These kind words fill my soul, motivating me to seize the day.
And then I realize, I just did.