Trigger

You spend twelve hours at a desk, plowing through the mounds of work that need finishing before you can turn your shingle to holiday mode. By the time you are set free, you feel like a wrung out rag, like sea foam, and like you've nothing left to write into the ether. 

But you made a promise, so you turn on the soundtrack, set the lighting. You made a promise so you open the word processor, pull out your proverbial piece of paper. And as you sink into the rituals you have created, the weariness wears off, the ache in your arm seems less volatile, the pressing and oppressing monoliths of midtown outside your window don't feel quite so close around your lungs.

There is one thing I am meant to do, and it is this. There is one thing that grants me peace at the end of a day, and it is this. No day was spent in vain that was spent writing. We are already nearing November, we are already racing toward the end of a year and all the things you thought you had meant to do with it. 

But you are writing now, and so you are not as worried. You are chipping away, bit by bit, at the creative mountain you fought so long to make your own. Forty-sixth street is a lonely endeavor, but you are not alone. Stories unfold at your fingertips, you adore them. 

You adore them. 

No day spent writing
was spent
in vain.