Show the Fuck Up

This emergency trip to La Junta has been... productive.

There have been a lot of things that needed to get done. Well, things Dawna needed to get done. I’ve mostly been sitting or standing beside her, trying to support her however I can.

But as I’ve stated many times before, Dawna is NOT a morning person. I sure as fuck am. I wake up early. Really fucking early. I don’t need an alarm clock, either. Even when I try to sleep in, curtains closed, blinds drawn, alarms off, entering the night with full fucking intent, it just doesn’t happen.

So I’ve accepted my strange little sleep pattern and learned to use those hours. I write when I wake up in the middle of the night. I write before bed. I write in the morning over breakfast. I write whenever I can, but those quiet hours seem to be when my brain is most willing to cooperate.

This trip has been no different. Except we’re staying in a hotel, and sitting up there banging away on a keyboard at four in the morning would invariably wake Dawna up. I try to respect everybody’s Eighth Amendment rights, so I’ve taken to camping out in the hotel breakfast area and writing my mornings away.

And look, writing is as important to my soul as riding is. They both ground me. They both clear my head. They both help me process whatever the fuck is rattling around in there. I find these writing sessions every bit as therapeutic as a long ride. Most mornings, I crank out a blog post, exactly like I’m doing right fucking now.

But something else has shifted while I’ve been up here. And I don’t think it has much to do with being “up here” at all. I think it has more to do with being around my wife.

For some reason, I’ve been avoiding Undertow. I know it’s my next project. I know it’s the next book I need to push across the finish line. Ever since releasing A Survivor’s Guide to Survival, I’ve known exactly what comes next. And yet, I’ve done very little work on it.

Until yesterday.

These mornings are longer than the ones I usually get when I’m buried in my work life. They give me enough time to stop dodging the decisions I already know I need to make. And being around Dawna has strengthened something else in me: the desire to do everything I can to build a secure life for us.

If I’m going to make it as a writer, that means fucking writing. Not thinking about writing, planning to write, or talking about writing. Writing. Showing the fuck up. Doing the work even when I don’t necessarily feel like doing the work. Treating this like a fucking job.

So yesterday, I finally quit avoiding it. I opened the most recent version of Undertow and started going through it with a fine-tooth comb. Yesterday, I finished the final polish on Confessions. This morning, I put the finishing touches on Names. Now I’m writing this blog, and when I’m done with this, I’m moving on to the next story. Then the next one. And the next one.

I’m going to keep fucking writing until this book is done. Then I’m going to push it across the finish line and make my third book available for purchase.

And then?

Yeah, then I fucking start the next one.

Because this is who I am.

I’m a writer. It’s time to fucking act like one.