Yesterday was El Cangri’s gymnastics class. It’s the third one he’s been to, and I kid you not, for the last three weeks the only way we get through any school related thing, or anything at all, is because of the promise of one hour of uninterrupted jumping and fun in his class.

On the way back home, he sighed and said, “One week to my next class…” and then, looking out the window, he added, “I really tried not to have fun so the time would go slower. But no, it didn’t work.”

When I managed to have a coherent thought after his words, I thought that for me writing means the same thing gymnastics means to my son. I usually write my best at night, and all day long, I look forward to the time I’ll finally be able to sit down and write a few words or edit a chapter. Most nights though, I’m so exhausted I can’t wait to go to bed and have some well-deserved sleep. But for me, if I don’t get a daily dose of something I love–writing–I don’t feel satisfied, no matter how much sleep or chocolate. I commit to protect my writing time, be more flexible with when I write and for how long. After all, it doesn’t matter if I have a two-hour block. By the time it’s over, it feels like five minutes because I have so much fun doing it.