I keep telling myself to let go; to go to sleep and call it a good three-month run and give up on the loony thought that I’m going to do this every day. You must be getting used to reading these introductions since that’s all I’ve been feeding you the last few days. It’s now after midnight, and I woke up from my nap feeling sick to my stomach because I hadn’t finished my writing for the day. I dragged my computer to the confines of my bed and I’m typing furtively. Before I do that, I have to make some comments on this writing every day thing. And stop with the collective groan, I can hear it from here. Yes, I’ve been forcing the issue lately and I’m not proud of it. But I have reasons to force the issue, which keeps me going; it wakes me up from my nap with my heart thumping and an emptiness deep in my gut wondering what happened that I’m feeling this way. It didn’t take me long to realize that it’s past midnight and my entry wasn’t finished or posted. You’ll notice that I used yesterday’s date. I won’t try to justify it because the date doesn’t matter much to me. What matters is that I have evidence of writing something.

It didn’t take Chuck long to point out the late entry. I won’t say he gloated because he’s not that type of guy (although it would be fun if he were that guy). In his I-hope-you-don’t-have-a-broken-neck email, he said, ‘If the streak is broken, I say "it's about time." That way you can stop worrying about having to write something every day and worry about the actual writing.’

I was so close to accepting that view. I fell asleep on my couch, hung over from too many Doolies-free video games and a sleepless-induced headache, with the thought that this is it. I’m done. I felt relief at not having to write any more crap just to get words for the day. Now, my thoughts echoed Chuck’s, now I can get back to writing something of value because writing will stop being a chore I have to complete every day and turn back into a privilege I bestow upon myself. The writing every day had become the end instead of the means to an end. I thought all these thoughts as I found blissful sleep in front of the Roger Ebert commentary track on “Citizen Kane.” (After finishing the movie, I’m still not impressed, but I did begin to like Kane’s character because of its pathetic nature. He’s an anti-hero, if you will.) When I woke up, I knew that I would bring my computer to the bed and finish the entry. I knew that it would be another exercise in explaining the streak, or my need to write every day. I wasn’t happy about the topic, but I saw it coming, as did you.

Back to “the explanation.” I don’t want to miss a day because I’m afraid that if I miss a day, it’ll be okay for me to miss a day. I know that sounds strange, but I know how I am. For example, I know how I am with my morning exercises. I mentioned this a few times, but when I wake up, I try to knock out a few hundred sit-ups and push-ups to pretend that I’m exercising somewhat, even though I don’t remember what the inside of the gym looks like anymore. For the first few weeks of morning exercises, I was going strong. Then I went to Taiwan, and the exercising stopped. I had a good reason: the floors in Doolies’s house were hardwood and it would have been nigh impossible to perform sit-ups on such floors. When I got home, I thought I’d jump right back in, but it didn’t work out as I expected. During a good week, I’ve managed to exercise twice. When you do something every day, it becomes habit, and habit is good because it’s hard to break. The habit of not doing something is also hard to break; there are always excuses lurking behind every corner, and these excuses are not friendly.

I’m going to try to stop worrying about excuses and “streaks.” These stupid discussions give me something to write about when I’m floundering and as I’ve tried to get across, it’s all about the words. The topic is irrelevant. I would be satisfied if I wrote about the toe jam stuck between my toes. The important part of this exercise is the exercise. I always come back to the analogy that great mountains succumb to the effects of wind, water, and weather over time. The point is that if you do something every day, eventually you improve because you’re doing it every day. Sure, I’d love to write good things every day, but even writing bad things helps me.

Earlier in the day, before the aforementioned video games, headache, and general depression, I realized that today would not be a story day. Well, I didn’t know it so much as fear it. It’s hard to say which days will be story days. I missed the 4pm closing of the coffee house, which is never a good sign. If I wanted to, right now I could probably start drafting a story that would turn out decent. At least the beginning of the story would turn out decent, until I ran out of energy and had no idea what happens next. What I’m coming to terms with is that while my writing is decent and the characters and setting are at times interesting, what is universally uninteresting is my plot. This isn’t a David OT. Doolies pointed this when we discussed my Herbert and the Bank story. She didn’t like the writing because nothing happened. There was no point to it and no plot. Looking back, I ended the story as I did because of a combination of running out of energy and not knowing what should happen. What I’m getting at is that many of my failures have nothing to do with writing and everything to do with telling a story. Take my recent oeuvre, The Flying Toe Stomp. I based that story on a few incidents in my life, and because of that, I had a decent idea of where the plot would go. The problem is that real life does not make a fiction. My job as storyteller is to take what I know, squeeze, and manipulate it until it’s a good yarn. And this is the rub: I’m not good at it—at least not yet.

While it’s taken me a while to realize this weakness in my writing, I now can look it dead in the face and develop a way to address it. Being the terribly optimistic person I am, I’m going to assume that there is a way to fix it, that this is not an inherent weakness in my writing that will forever keep my goal from reach. I’m going to find a few books on improving plot, and figure out some way of approaching this beast. I know a good plot when I see it, which is an important first step. Now, I just need to find some way to drag that good plot out of me. “How’d you get so smart?” “RIF: Reading is Fundamental.”

I was going to end this with a basketball anecdote from today. One of my colleagues and I went out in the brisk but sunny (and incredibly clear—you should have seen the mountains. If only I brought my camera) weather and shot hoops in the courtyard of my company’s campus. At this late hour, I don’t remember what I wanted to discuss about it, but I’m sure whatever it was, it would have been brilliant.

I feel better and I think I will sleep easier now. I will cut out my extra-curricular video game playing and get back into a more natural flow with my writing. I won’t promise anything, because I have a tendency to break my promises. What I will promise you, is by whatever means necessary (and whatever time of night), I will write something “everyday.”