photo courtesy of

I can’t seem to get past the excuses. They loom above me like the hedge of arborvitaes in the backyard of the house I grew up in. They block out the rays of creativity that feed my soul. Everyday those hedges seem to grow taller, blocking out more and more of the sun until I stand in a dark shadow of disappointment and self-loathing where the warmth of accomplishment should have been. I berate myself for my own weakness, as I repeat the pathetic excuses to myself. “I don’t have time, I’m too tired. The house needs to be cleaned, the flowers need to be weeded and watered, I have too many other undone projects” I recite the phrases ad nauseam until I am nauseous from the sound of them. I am no different from any other would-be writer. I have a life that needs attention, urgent matters that close in and steal my time like birds in the strawberry patch of life. My struggle is the same as that of millions of others throughout the world who desire to write, but don’t. Not can’t, but don’t. Not even all those that do can. Some are just determined hacks with much discipline and no talent, but they still have a leg up on me, who can’t even commit to sit at my computer for a few hours a week and type out a few rag-tag sentences that amount to little more than drivel. That, at least would be something