Here, let me help.
This year, I’m attacking the back yard. There’s a ground cover that is invading the grass. If it goes unchecked, it will eliminate everything else back there. So I’m digging.
For hours and hours, and this is how far I’ve gotten.
Gardening in this way is like writing a novel. You see the little progress you make every day, but what’s still left to do is so overwhelming. It’s such a monumental task; it’s so easy to look at the work ahead and want to quit.
Look at that giant mass of weeds. It needs to be dug and pulled and dug and pulled. Then, when everything’s empty, I have to go back through and pull out any strays.
This will take weeks of one-hour days because that is all I can usually manage after a full day’s work.
After digging in the yard, I’m tired. I’m weary, but I also feel good. I’ve made progress.
After writing for hours at night, I’m tired. Yet, I’m invigorated. It feels good. I’ve made progress.
I love being a writer, but I succeed because I am also in love with the act of writing. I love making this post.
I even love gardening. At least, it’s growing on me.