I was out for a stroll the other day and came across a woman walking her dog – or trying to. The dog was lying on the sidewalk, refusing to budge. She tried begging, pleading, bribing with treats, etc. but the dog was having none of it. Yanking and suppressed red-faced yelling – because of course she didn’t want to make a scene but she was getting REALLY frustrated – wasn’t working either. The pooch just lay there like a plush toy that had seen one too many pajama parties. Eventually she picked up the mutt, none too gently, and without a glance at the gathering crowd of amused bystanders, marched off home.
I know that dog. That dog is the writer within who’s supposed to be devoting the first hour of every day to a memoir/exploration about my spiritual community experience in the the 1990s. (It’s my main commitment in my 28 Days of Creative Recovery. For more on that, ask me to send you my May 2010 newsletter – firstname.lastname@example.org.) I’ve suited up and shown up most days, I’m proud to say, but the first day I sat down to write, the writer within refused to move.
Determined to keep my commitment to The Muse, I decided I would write about my doubts, usually the ringleader in any case of writer’s block.