He decided, then, that it must be a conscious decision to write every day. It couldn't be just a sometimes thing that he did. He didn't necessarily have to produce everyday, or publish everyday. But that writing, the writing had to be there. That was really the only way. He didn't believe in New Year's resolutions. He didn't believe in much of anything. He only trusted that for which there was evidence. There was no evidence, beyond the anecdotal, that resolution actually worked. There was no evidence that people who made resolutions kept them throughout the year. There was no evidence that even those resolutions that were kept, actually made those who made them any better of a person. But there was clear evidence that those who choose to write, made it a daily choice, became better writers. So he put the phone down. He put the book down. He put his butt down, in the chair, and he wrote.
Sure, he had other goals. Exercise was nice. His imagination often flourished with new ideas while he was in the midst of a serious sweat. He certainly always felt better when he burned a few calories more than usual. Reading was important to him as well. Seeing the techniques of others and understanding how different words could be played with to make the symphony that is a novel dance within one's head. That made him a better writer too. But he did not need those things in order to be a better writer. He simply needed to write to begin with. So it had to be a conscious choice, everyday. He couldn't wait for perfect conditions. He couldn't even wait for half perfect conditions. It didn't matter if his mind was primed with fresh ideas. It didn't matter if he hadn't learned the latest style and prose. None of that would do him any good if he never got it on paper. Never got something on paper.
The greatest divers in the world could read all about diving. They could watch all the videos of all the divers in the world. But if they never actually stepped off the board and plunged into the water, then they never would have become who they were. The same could be said of the professionals of any endeavor in this world. If he was to be a writer then he had to write. No matter what. Day after day, he had to make the choice to write. Life obviously meant that it couldn't be an all the time thing, but it had to be an everyday thing all the same. It had to be. He had to be. It wasn't enough to want it anymore. Thinking about it wasn't enough anymore. Talking certainly was never enough. It simply had to be done.
He could type it, he could use a pen, he could scratch it out in blood, or even chisel it into a stone. But it had to be done. He had to choose it everyday. He had to wake up early, if he had gotten enough sleep. He had to stay up late, if he had slept in. He had to open his computer. If it was low on power, he had to plug it in. If the pen was low on in, he had to refill it and drain it again. That was just the way of things. He'd written enough to know that this was the way it had to be. His products were out there. The meager reviews as well. But that wasn't enough. It would never be enough, unless it was an everyday thing. He had to make it enough. Just as he had to wake up, just as he had to go to work, just has he had to eat, to breathe, to kiss his children goodnight. He had to make it an everyday choice. That was the only way.