Naomi Dawn Musch

     Today I am digging deep and holding my breath. I’m reaching down into the lake of floundering and trying to pull my motivation up from where I dropped it into the silt. If I can just reach it and get hold of it, I may be able to pull it to the surface and swim ashore.

     But the darn thing is heavy. Every time I get my fingers on it, they slip, and it plummets back into the mire where black clouds of distraction hide it again.

     Being a writer is like that at times. This just happens to be one of them. There are acres of clear blue for me to explore. A writing pallet as broad and wide and breath-taking as I could wish for. But I keep going under; and motivation, instead of being a skiff fleeting across the waves from crest to crest, is an anchor without a rope.

     So I’m telling you about it, hoping that in so doing it’ll be like taking a strengthening breath for the dive.

I read today that part of being a writer is to be stubborn and tenacious and committed to failure. That’s so true it would be scary if God hadn’t written it into my genetic code. After all, it’s not as though I could say, well, I’m done being a writer now; it’s hard and I don’t want to do it anymore. Writing is in my being. Stopping sounds like dying. So even though I’m feeling a bit stalled out against the tide right now, I’m committed.

     I’m going down now. I’ve been treading water long enough.