I woke up last night at eleven fifty-something, a time I never wake up. I had to pee, so I got up and went to the bathroom. During those moments of relieving repose (which all of us know so well), I realized I'd forgotten to publish. "Well," I said to myself, "I guess my streak is over."
I went back into the bedroom. The red glow of the clock read 11:56. I thought about it for a moment. I actually had a piece ready to go, I'd just forgotten to publish it. On the other hand, burying myself back under the covers was very tempting.
"Fuck it," I said, and walked into my office. I published with two minutes to spare.
I've been feeling recently that I'm kind of just going through the motions with my writing. That I'm essentially wasting my time, pretending that the work is important, using my current approach as a distraction from digging into something deeper. And honestly that may all be true. But I think again to that moment, eleven fifty-something, a time I never wake up, and of a swirl of energy given voice, whispering in my ear: "Wake up. Going through the motions is better than no motion at all."