Studio Blog

The cursor is blinking, and I’m counting the number of times it blinks per minute. But then my eyes drift, and I’ve lost count. I grab the traveler’s mug of coffee sitting on the table, and I take a big lazy gulp. Back to the task at hand, and the cursor is still blinking.

Then, in a flurry of inspiration, my fingers clamor around on the keyboard. One more paragraph is on the page. Only about three more to go, which is good since this beast is due to my editor at 9 a.m. It’s now 3:22 a.m., and I have to wake up for work in a few hours.

I pause for a moment, and then I know how to end the article. I close with that one engaging fact that caught my eye during my research, and I pull together all other elements in a way I can only hope my readers will think is clever and sensible. It’s 3:44 a.m. now, and I have no way to judge what is clever anymore. My brain is useless, but my article is done.  I email it in an attachment to my editor. As I crawl into bed, I vow I won’t torture myself again this way for a while.

And for months now, I haven’t.

Years ago, writing wasn’t work; it was just what I loved to do. Now as a professional writer and editor, I count myself among the blessed for getting paid to do what I love. But by getting paid to do what I love, what I love to do has become my work. I’ve begun dreaming of taking a vacation to reinvigorate my passion for writing. I want to go off somewhere with no worries and no deadlines, and I want to sit down and just write.

And I’ll be writing for myself, because I love it. Even if I can just get out of the house for a few hours on a lazy Sunday, that should do the trick. Maybe I’ll drive down to Newport Beach and set up camp at Alta, arguably the best coffee shop in Southern California. I’ll sit out on their patio and order some comfort food. I’ll pull the chair across from me closer so I can rest my feet on it, with my computer on my lap.

And with some guy quietly strumming his guitar in the background, and college students talking and laughing, I will write. No one has to read what I churn out. I don’t even have to look back on it if I don’t want to. I will be writing for me, because I love it.

When I look up, it won’t be with the tormented gaze of a late-night deadline-driven writing session. I won’t be sitting there feeling tortured about the impending day of exhaustion ahead of me. It won’t matter if I want to stop and people-watch. I won’t be on a deadline. I will have nowhere to be. I won’t be watching the clock. And this time, when I glance down at the cursor, it won’t be blinking. It won’t be blinking, because I’m writing for the love of it and my fingers are typing faster than the cursor can blink.