Resistance has been strong, lately.  My inclination towards doing other things has increased such that my writing ends up waiting until the very end of the day, increasing the chance of a lapse in my consistent output.

I'm trying to treat it as life or death.  Like Scheherazade hooking the emperor daily at the edge of a story to be granted another day's reprieve from the headsman's axe.

It will probably work to think of it like that, given my own motivation at avoiding the axe of the executioner.

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

- Dylan Thomas

So I too, will rage in my own way, in all the ways listed and those yet to be so.  I am the same as everyone.  In this we all have a kinship as much as our origin is a kinship.

Peace,

Shane