If I were to compare my writing output to others (and to where I’d ideally like to be), there’d be disappointment. The writer who gets to sequester themself in an office for hours and write thousands of words will always seem like a pipe dream.

With the current demands of life, I’m limited to writing in a notebook in very short bursts whenever I can stack steal a moment–typing it out later when (if) the day settles.

Prior to quarantine, the writing happened in my commute to work as I dictated into my phone.

If I wanted to get writing done and feel satisfied, it’s necessary to adjust the parameters upon which it will occur and what its outcome will be.

As life and circumstances change, so will the parameters.

Contrary to what I originally imagined, it’s never a straight, clear course to get where you want, but as long as you adjust…

You’ll get there.