Admittedly, I have swayed from my commitment to write every week. I'm not even going to use the fact that life has thrown some weird shit my way in the past few months as an excuse. I cannot use the death of my writing accountability steward as an excuse as my new writing accountability steward is wonderful, on point and consistent. Lack of content is the worst scapegoat as I can always write about that I don't know what to write about it. I mean, it's not that entertaining; but everyone knows that it doesn't matter what song gets you on the dance floor, it's how you shake it once you're out there.

Even my employees and close friends have been consistently asking me, "Are you writing?"

Me: "No." (I've outgrown trying to lie about this.)

Someone: "Why?"

Me: "Because I haven't been making time for it."

Someone: "Oh. Why haven't you been making time for it?"

Me: "I guess unconsciously I want to live an insignificant and mediocre life."

Someone: "That's weird Emma."

It is totally "weird" - my failure to devote time attention to something I intrinsically enjoy doing. Frankly, avoidance is self-destructive. If most people sabotage themselves through action, I sabotage myself through inaction. Which sucks because I am the sole activator when it comes to my writing. I mean, duh. If I want significant results, I am personally responsible for making them happen. And if I cannot do that with something so inherent to my being, how will I feel fulfilled in the rest of my life.

In order to be my authentic self and rise above mediocrity, I have to fill myself with time with authentic expression - in my case, writing. If I'm failing to carve out time to nurture said authentic self, then what the hell is the point? Like, of life? For me, repressed creativity is detrimental to being fully functioning causing built up possibility sans outlet. Just me, 5'3, going to work, to yoga, to dinner and paddle boarding and theater and concerts and NYC and blah, blah, blah. All the while not feeling like I am doing anything for myself and I'm just a boring, average Josephine. It's like when you really want a chocolatey dessert so you eat fruit, then sorbet, then some craisins, then cereal, but nothing satisfies you because you really want dessert dessert. So finally you give yourself the chocolate when you should have just done so in the first place and could have saved yourself 300 calories.

It's. Just. Like. That.

So here I am, week after week filling up on dried fruit and fucking bananas, wishing I had something sweet to eat. I have my Master's Degree in human behavior. My mother is a Life Coach. I work at the most self-aware-centric company in the history of the world. I have no excuse for this. There is not a soul to to blame but my damn self. It's not my lack of time, inspiration, content, encouragement from others or anything else. C'est moi.

Okay, so I am personally responsible. Now I'm trying to remember if admittance is a catalyst to change...
or maybe I need to hire my mother.

Emma Dinzebach


Photo via Christopher Gindlesperger