I didn’t want to write last night. I didn’t want to do anything. I was four chapters into the book and already hating everything about it. Most novelists don’t feel this way about their books until three quarters of the way through. I felt like I must be doing something wrong.

And maybe I am. But I won’t know until the book is done. If I don’t finish it, there’s no way to know if how I’m writing it will work, and if I don’t finish it I won’t be able to go back and fix anything. If I don’t finish it, I won’t learn anything, and I won’t ever be able to make a living as a writer.

I wrestled with my mind, trying to pull myself together enough to stick it out and finish the book. Or at least give it a go for one more night. If I had written the book five years ago, I wouldn’t be in the situation I’m in right now. There’s a good possibility that I would be published by now and possibly even doing well enough to support myself.

Then I told myself that I can’t begrudge the lost time. It’s not coming back, but I can learn from it. I can start now and stay steady now as if today were that day five years ago when I wished that I’d started.

Now is the time.

If I don’t push through today and stay consistent and true to my writing goals, then tomorrow will have exactly the same problems as today.

I won’t have grown. I won’t have moved on. I won’t have accomplished my goals. I still won’t have a yurt.

And I’ll be five years older, looking back on a day much like today when I could have pulled myself together and continued forward.

I refuse to have to look back on today with the words, “I wish I had” running like a digital marquee through my head.

Now is the time.