It's hit and miss, mostly. There are days when I can't figure out a single reason to write another word, then there are stretches, months at at time, when I can't stop. The work feels so urgent and important then.
Today I'm looking for a reason.
There are times when writing just doesn't seem to be serving a practical need in my life or the life of anyone else I care about. Practical. It's a nice, clean word, and completely irrelevant in the world of art. I have two degrees, one of which is the highest degree that can be earned in my field of study, and I'm plugging away at two jobs and still going under.
It would have been practical of me to pick up a trade skill along the way. It would have been smart to have escaped from the university on my first night, tossed my books, my writing, my oh-so-lofty ideals of intellectualism and found a hammer, a welding torch, a pair of pliers. I should have been thinking bricks and mortar, but instead I was in the clouds, prepped to be blindsided. I should have been studying tools and trade instead of writing stories.
Regret's not the right word, but it's close.
Whining is the right word. Feel free to say so.