A frivolous waste.

This is that which inhibits a writer. I fight the temptation, even now, to type "writer" instead, but this must be fought. This is the entirety of the philosophy behind National Novel Writing Month-- I have too much to do today, I can easily waste my time to write something later, and that day never comes. One will not progress in any discipline without practice and regular discipline of their art, this is why I struggle to write more. With repetition, the words will flow easily.
With repetition, the words will flow easily.
With repetition, the worlds will flow easily.

A professor I once had said, "If you write a poem every day, will you become a great poet? Probably not. If you do not write a poem every day, will you become a great poet? Definitely not." One must keep this up. There are some books out there which will fill you with writing prompts, at which I have scowled and moved on, yet reason must exist for this.

As I sit in my office this beautiful afternoon (I must remember to get on the bicycle today), there is a finely detailed, beautiful fountain pen which Megan gave me years ago. I admire it whenever I sit here, yet there is a certain amount of sadness-- fountain pens are not practical, and it goes unused, never fulfilling its purpose. With the disuse of a beautiful object, one begins to feel that most any use is mundane-- below that of such a wonderful tool. When she and I were apart for a summer, we wrote to one another every day, and each day, I was certain to use a fountain pen and an inkwell, and now no use today seems close to that level. On the shelf next to my desk, there is perhaps a pint of fine ink which is dormant.

I discovered earlier this year that a pint of water weighs exactly one pound. I think this is how one of these quantities is defined. Excuse me, a bottle of ketchup just fell.