Artists don’t generally hang out at the gym. You don’t see a lot of musicians running marathons or writers entering the olympics. We may take a long walk on a spring day, but we are more often in search of our muse than our muscle tone.

Don’t get me wrong. Not all artists are couch potatoes. Some artsy folks are tremendously fit (especially if they are dancers or actors) But discipline, in general, doesn’t fit the style of the artist. We like to think of ourselves as floating in clouds of creativity, waiting for a brilliance to flood our souls.

It never works that way, though. Creativity doesn’t float into my life anymore than a slim body comes from watching Marie Osmond do Nutri-system commercials on t.v. (Don’t I wish).

Instead, creativity arrives when I begin to create. I call it disciplining my art. I can’t even remember now where I learned that, but I’ve practiced it for years. No one else in the entire world is going to care today whether or not I write 500 words on my possibly-useless work in progress. No one is going to withhold my paycheck if I fail to post this blog. Nothing is going to goad me on as a writer except… me.

So, I did my little self-talk this morning. I forced myself out of bed and into my prayer-chair. Later, I cajoled myself onto the treadmill and then onto the floor with my hand weights. And, just before I dashed out the door for work, I made myself sit still and capture these thoughts my good friend, Cheri, stirred in my soul this morning.

Not a bad start for a Monday. (Thanks, Cheri)