Now that I am practicing to write, exercising deliberate practice, I am having a terrible week and it’s only Tuesday. I set the alarm at 5:30am today, and yesterday, and I feel like a constipated  zombie with a hang over. The problem isn’t that I have nothing to say, ask any of my friends and family, but that I have so much going on in my mind it’s all jammed up at the door of explainability. I was reflecting while driving back on Sunday from Healesville, what perspective should I be writing from? Should it be stories of things I encounter? The ideas that come from them? I’m thinking what have I forgotten already? When I got home I jump on my Kindle and flicked through Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird again:

Do it everyday for a while, my father kept saying. Do it as you would do scales on the piano. Do it by prearrangement with yourself. Do it as a debt of honor. And make a commitment to finishing things.

Good writing is about telling the truth. We are a species that needs to understand who we are.
— Anne Lamott

  The anxiety of feeling lost subsided, but then I couldn’t stop thinking about how did this happen, what is causing this jam in my head? Because last week the thoughts came more gracefully. Well I have a theory, I’m back at work in the thick of other problems, the mind has become a soup of got to do this and plan for that, such and such wants to talk about X, do your timesheet, get your expenses in, a fight for my attention!
  Prior to this, over the Christmas period, I had 10 days off and to my surprise, I found myself stumbling into some nice deep thought periods, quiet time to reflect and make sense of matters. Sitting out in the waters of Bondi Beach waiting for a wave, I believe, allow me to think clearly again and therefore turn that thinking into words on a page. Some might call this meditation or relaxing but it is the opposite. It is thinking deeply over matters of knowledge and letting your mind search for truths.