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I finally got smart … and asked a friend to design it. He has more knowledge and expertise than I do! It'll get done, too. He's a student so he's busy, but even then, he'll gitter done faster than I would!

And I can go on writing.

On most days!

I have been sick for most of 2020. Yeah. I'm not dying. I don't have cancer. I don't have coronavirus!

But the crud just won't let go. I”m not gonna tell you the details. Yuck.

There is one thing …

During this sick season, I let myself rest.

And journal.

And read.

I never do that … for whole days … weeks!

My health is still not back to 100% or even 75%, but from time to time, I feel that the well is full.

I have three trilogies to write within the next two years. (My deadline–no one else's!) One, especially, is going to be tough to write. Pretty serious stuff.

And I could not do that–write all that–if the well was empty.

It's not fun being sick. In fact, it's downright nasty.

But my well is getting filled. I wrote an add-in chapter yesterday morning and had fun doing it. Crazy.

As a result, I realized something.

I haven't had fun at my writing in a long time.

That makes me sad, but also alerts me to where my writing may have been going. If I'm not having fun, enjoying the process, then the reader won't have fun reading my work. They won't even engage with the story or the characters.

Filling the well.

How do you go to work everyday? Is it drudgery? Is it a pain? Many, many people go to work to a job they hate, to provide for a family, or to get themselves out of debt, or to eat.

How do you fill the well?

What if … what if you grabbed thirty minutes a day and did something that satisfied the hole in your heart, in your life? What is the one action that stirs you to keep going and doing the responsibility thing?

If I asked one son, he'd say jump on that motorcycle and ride–even a half an hour–on a remote road somewhere.

The other son might go out to his shop and just play–pick up a rough-sawn plank and see what it wanted to be and then make that. No objective in mind. Let the wood speak.

My daughter might go to her garden (in the spring or summer) and sing to her plants. Sing to her soul. Write those words down or record the song that fills and satisfies her.

Me: if I read, I want to read everything. And finish it. Finish that book. I love updating my progress on Goodreads. Or read five chapters, each from a different book before I go to sleep.

But is that what fills the well? Is that my playtime or is that driven by my urge to learn and get it done?

What if … again, my favorite two words … what if I played? Settle in with a blank notebook page, reach for my favorite gel pen and draw.

Sometimes, I forget to play and want it perfect. But mostly, I can let the lines flow.

Sometimes I can let the lines draw me to where I need to go … which is to fill the well.

So I draw and doodle until I give a deep sigh, even if the drawing isn't finished–isn't perfect.

The fact that I let myself play without any agenda, without a plan.

Just to play.

To fill the well.