The ride this morning was a bit rough. A cold wind coming north at fifteen miles an hour + me going south at fifteen = yowza.

Halfway along, a spoke busted, and I discovered that my back tire was half-flat. By the time I got to the coffee shop where I do my writing, my ears were numb and my hands were aching. 

And yet, I kind of liked it. I liked that it was hard to get to write this morning, that I had to fight for it a little. The struggle makes it worth more, I think, or at least it makes me realize its worth. 

I recognize that plenty of people face a harder struggle to get to write: yowling babies, unsupportive spouses, life-eating jobs. My little battle with the wind this morning is nothing compared to their struggles, or even to the situation I faced ten years ago when I was selling insurance. 

My pay was commission-only, and we had a new baby at home. If the sun was up, I was either selling policies or changing diapers. If I wanted to read, it meant fighting off sleep after my son was down for the night. If I wanted to write, it meant sneaking into the conference room at five a.m. and praying the boss didn’t come in early and decide to shoot the shit with me.

I wanted to write. I wanted to read. These facts were made plain to me every time I found myself closing the blinds in the conference room to block out the sunrise, or crawling into my son’s walk-in closet with a book and a flashlight.

I don’t often recognize it, but the fact is that my life is easy now—compared to a decade ago, and especially compared to the lives of most humans on the planet. I haven’t had to fight for writing time in a while, and maybe that ease has some downside. When things come easy to me, I tend to squander them.  

It’s good to fight a little. It’s good to have to earn it. I’ll value my writing time a little more today, and maybe end up writing for a longer time.

At the very least, I won’t be in a rush to get back out into that wind.