For the past eight weeks, my Sunday evenings have been devoted to writing. While I didn't particularly like having to wait until the end of the weekend, most weekends, I knew that this semester I had asked for challenge at work. Teaching first, textbook revision/writing second, and personal writing third. Even though this sometimes made me grumpy, timing actually worked fine--I could write knowing that work wasn't waiting. I could fall into my writing without worries of unfinished prep for the morning's class.
Tonight is the first Sunday without any impending writing; my eight-week workshop ended this past week, and tonight I am without a writing assignment. I am without an impending deadline. I am without external motivation. A half hour ago I celebrated this, and then instantly, felt as though something was amiss; my evening felt unfamiliar. Writing had become a habit in a short eight weeks.
I have my own writing assignments and deadlines, so these next weeks will be a test to see how well I can motivate myself to keep my fingers moving, to keep working at craft. I'm excited to work on some final revisions for a couple of pieces, happy to be able to focus my attention to sentence level, diction, and stylistic tuning. Even though I do that through some of early drafts, I am usually too overwhelmed with thematic revision, still essaying my way to meaning.
Whether I call this goals or ambition, I am walking in unfamiliar territory, walking in my own desires and motivations.