It’s Labor Day.

Growing up, the holiday marked the freshly dug grave of joyful summers of irresponsibility; its passing, the final death rattle of freedom from the Monday through Friday slog of pre-college academia.

As I approach my mid 40’s, seasons and holidays mean little to me without children around to demarcate the societal rituals of which I do not take part. However, I have actively taken to heart the nostalgia for my youthful summers when it comes to my writing; slacking off both in public and private forums throughout all of June, July and August.

90 days without getting a thought from my head onto “paper” is a dangerous place for me to be. To keep the surreal whirlwind of thoughts and ideas whipping throughout my head in check, I must write daily to give them voice and space to run; even if I’m the only one who cares if I do so or not.

While I need not return to the dreaded high school halls of fickle friendships and the petty politics of popularity on Tuesday, I do need to recommit to myself. To carve out time to write daily; to grant consistent energy to the endeavor; to keep the proverbial writing lights on and shining brightly into those creative rooms, to allow me to safely explore the darkest and most disturbing areas of my mind, many of which lie just beyond the shadows and only gain strength and focus when the light is stifled or allowed to fade.

My trigger of awareness this time was an article I read this weekend on the actor Ethan Hawke in the New York Times. The glowing kernel of truth I gleaned from his interview was simple and succinct:

Take your art and yourself seriously, even if no one else does.

When it comes to creating art, someone might eventually notice your work and reward you for it, or they might not do so until long after you are dead, or you may never even be noticed or rewarded materially for your efforts, but you will have been true to yourself in your endeavors nonetheless.

And writing is art, just as film, music, poetry, painting, and sculpting are.

For this insight shared, I admire him greatly. His integrity of artistic vision and keen self awareness of the aspirations of mortals is inspiring.

Thus, with a nascent connection to his personal philosophy, I find myself suddenly hyper aware how easily I have (once again!) fallen prey to my greatest nemesis as a writer: the fiercely addictive Cerberus of entropy, inactivity, and distraction.

No time like the present to take up the pen and slay the fearsome and tireless beast once more…

— The Impostor