Skip to main content


This morning I wake to the sound of birds outside the window. When the alarm went off at 5:30, I shut it off and rolled over, remembering this will be the last day I'll get to sleep in for a while. I had plans to get up and try to get some things done before my extended time off from work expired. But then, when have I ever managed my time well?

So at 8 AM, I eased out of bed and got the coffee started, while looking out at the creek through the kitchen window to see if the water had cleared up any since the hard rain muddied it two days ago. The weather is mild today for January, and I would really like to try out a few new bass flies I tied this week when I should've been getting my punch list taken care of, checking off things left undone due to conflicts with my work schedule and family matters.

When the coffee finished, I took out my journal, and filled a few pages with random thoughts, most incomplete and some downright nonsensical, until I had nothing else to bring to the page. I've had a lot on my mind lately, and I have found that if I want to avoid writing enough, there are plenty of things to do in it's stead, things like: watching You Tube videos, reading dozens of articles in magazines or on the internet, or scrolling through Facebook or Instagram. 

Lately, I have discovered that if the urge to write becomes too overbearing, I can simply pick up my guitar and try to learn a song that I'd been humming, but didn't know the chords to. 

There is plenty to do when the one thing you should be doing is right there in front of you, begging for your time and attention.

So, I get up and put some clothes on and head outside. I walk the path leading  down to the swamp to take a look around. I haven't heard or seen any ducks in a couple of weeks since my neighbor and his buddies opened season on them a couple weeks back. The only signs of life out here this morning are a few squirrels and a crow that keeps flying over and checking me out.

I sit down on one of the fallen snag trees and I start to realize exactly what I am doing, just sitting out here in the swamp. The thing that I do best: avoiding what I need to be doing, which for me, is sitting my ass in a chair and writing until the work is done.

Steven Pressfield calls it Resistance, and I know all too well what it can do to your creative output. Resistance is a sinister force, and it can take on many forms, and it's different for each person. The resistance I struggle with varies from day to day, depending on what mood I am in, and what's going on in my life at the time.

The deceptive thing for me is all the guilt that it brings with it, especially when I sit down to write and it feels like the world is coming apart around me. I start to feel the burden on myself to close my laptop, put my notebook aside, and try to fix everything that needs to be fixed, then maybe, just maybe, return to the page at a later time. It never fails that I can't seem to find the time for the rest of the day to finish what I've started. Procrastination is my worst enemy. Always has been.

I gather up my thoughts and head back to the house. Maybe I'll make myself another cup of coffee, maybe not. But I will do my best to fight off all the things that try to keep me from doing what I was born to do. 

It all starts with a ink blot on a blank page. It couldn't be that difficult, could it? 


Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Book Review: The Promise: A Fly Angler's Long Journey Home By Paul A. Cañada

My favorite stories are the ones that give the author depth and serve as a window of insight into a writer's mind. Within the first few pages, it is important for me to develop a connection with the author, less I will quickly lose interest. I don't mean to sound like some type of literary elitist by any stretch– it's just me being honest.  Reading the first chapter in Paul Cañada's new book, The Promise , I felt that connection immediately. Paul tells of his childhood growing up in a military family, having a father in the Air Force, and the moves and re-adjustments that had to be made each time his father received new orders to relocate. I did not grow up in a military family, nor did my family move from place to place, but the relationship between Paul and his dad gripped me from the beginning. For me, this laid the groundwork for what was to come.  As his bio states, Paul Cañada is an award-winning writer and photographer with bylines in dozens of magazi

Love Letter

I wake this morning, to find your scent still lingering on my skin. With sleep in my eyes, I try to shake the heady buzz from the hours of being entwined with you the day before. I feel your residual energy flowing all around me. I step into the shower just to feel the rivulets of water wash over my body. You are all I can think about this morning, and I know that I will not find peace until I return to your side. I am completely, utterly, and desperately obsessed with you. When I look upon you, I am captivated. I am enamored by your beauty, by your natural sensuous movements. I follow every curve, trace all of your soft edges with my eyes, immerse myself in the rise and fall of your breath. You whisper mysteries known only to the deepest parts of my consciousness, and the narrative you speak to my heart is as old as the earth. I have watched you suffer mistreatment at the hands of so many before. You have been taken advantage of, used and abused, stripped of your purity. I

Hunting the Hard Way

Early morning sun catches my eye as it peeks over the horizon. It seems I am at odds with the world this morning. Already a crow has found my hideout in the tree branches, and pointed me out to his comrades as a spy for the human kind among the oaks. Only minutes later, the squirrel that emerged from the ball of dried leaves in a high fork betrays my location with a series of shrill barks, and I’m sure that every deer within twelve miles knows of my plan and will steer clear of this patch of woods from now until two hours after sunset this evening.  Once the alarm calls fade, all is quiet again, too quiet. It is always coldest after daylight, and I sit shivering, without so much as a wren or finch scratching around in the leaves, or hopping from branch to branch to entertain me. For two hours I sit with nothing but thoughts of a warm bed to occupy my time. Forlorn and desperate for some sort of action, I lower my bow to the ground and climb down from the tree. I need to do