I read a poem today brought to me by the inestimable Brain Pickings by Sarah Kay that captured the infinite longing of all writers.
When I am inside writing,
all I can think about is how I should be outside living.
When I am outside living,
all I can do is notice all there is to write about.
I love the act of writing and often remind myself of the Buddhist admonition that you grow the flower not for the bloom but the love of the planting of it. Or something like that. The point is write not for the finished piece, but for the act of writing.
And yet, I often feel a deep urge to stand up and walk outside, to be in the woods or walking down the street watching people, or sit in a cafe or run and so on. But the second I leave my writing nook, the tug of it is incredible. Every word I hear, person I watch, wooded scene I see, and in my own thoughts I see what needs to be written and feel guilty for not being in the act of doing it.
I write because I cannot not write and I cannot not distract myself.
An endless tug of war, but a good one. We need balance and fresh air.