A lot of conversations these days start off the same way.
Me: Hey, how’s it going?
Them: Good. Really busy. You?
Over and over again it goes. I’m busy. I’m writing a lot — for work most of the time, not for myself. When I get to the end of my day, I don’t necessarily want to spend time in front of the computer again.
I have too many built in excuses. I’m traveling. Kid time and wife time take up a majority of my evenings. I’m going to bed earlier because I’m getting up earlier. I’ve ended some days with my fingers very literally tired of typing.
“Maybe I’ll write next week.”
“Man, I just don’t have time for this.”
“I have 27 unfinished blog posts and I don’t know where to start.”
Except, I don’t say those things about feeding my daughter, giving her a bath, or reading her a story before bed. In fact, if I’m home, I can almost guarantee that I am doing one of those three things between 5:30 and 7:30pm.
Sure, taking care of your kid is different. But so is writing. At least, it is for me. I’ve been regularly writing online for 14 years. Most of it has been without compensation. That’s a long time, but I haven’t said all I want to say.
So I’m writing now, every day. Sometimes it will be here. Sometimes it will be on my Tumblr. Sometimes it will be in my daughter’s Evernote notebook. It doesn’t have to be serious. It doesn’t have to be groundbreaking.
That’s fine by me.