tipping point

So here I sit, on a quiet Friday night. I guess you could say I’ve reached some sort of tipping point. Not a bad one I guess, although I’ve never really thought of a good tipping point before. Usually when you think of tipping point it’s always the moment before you (metaphorically) throw yourself over the edge—or get shoved from behind without much choice.

But this shove comes from the past two months of mostly inactivity. I’ve strayed away from the empty page.

For too long.

Scared to put down a new word? Or even an edited one from the book I promised myself I would publish last fall (with the self-imposed deadline flying past me like an 18-wheeler on a two-lane highway in central Texas)?



Okay, fine, yes.

Can I blame a new job and a hectic travel schedule? No?

Damn it, fine.

But alas, now I’m closer to midnight. And look above! Words! Albeit nothing to do with my book or another short story. But words nonetheless. And that’s better than the previous 60 days combined, so yay me for tonight.

What’s the saying? “I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired.”

Which brings me back to reaching my tipping point this evening. Another lackluster night in front of a television with really nothing to show for myself except for my uncanny ability to stop the playback on my DVR as the commercials come to an end.

Call it an accurate trigger finger, or just way too much practice with the remote.

But the tiny voice in the back of my head that’s been screaming at me for two months finally won a battle.

And here I am at the kitchen table. With the waterfall-like sounds of the fish tank and three snoring dogs, I get the self-inflicted shove over the edge and my tipping point has been fully realized.

I’m not 100% sure where I go from here. And for the moment that’s okay—it is way past my bedtime after all. But tomorrow will be a fresh start.

It’s the joy of being blessed enough to wake up and have something to look forward to, to aim for, and to fall back in love with all over again.

I’ve missed the clacking of the keys, the automatic scrolling of my screen with each passing line.

I’m kicking myself for giving it up for the extended amount of time. I know I can’t blame the holidays, or the job, or the schedule.

I won’t blame it on anything. Because blaming myself for something in the past isn’t worth it.

I just have right now and the act of looking forward to the morning’s start.

Here’s to the tiny voice winning the internal battle. And to shoving me over the edge and obliterating the stagnation.

Here’s to my tipping point. And giving it the finger in my rearview mirror tomorrow morning.


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