Writing is a peculiar form of self discipline. It requires loads of alone time, which is typically alright by most writers—we tend to be an introverted lot. But even so, there are times when being alone for long stretches, with no one but yourself to talk to, and that in a sort of internally echoed voice reflected outward and onto the page—sometimes that’s a little tough. Sometimes you just want other people around. Sometimes the distractions are welcome.

There’s also those days when mustering the energy to sit and face the existential crisis that is the blank page just absolutely twists your guts. It’s hard to explain, as a sensation, but for me, it’s sometimes like my blood is sticky. Like it runs like syrup through my veins, and the very thought of getting started, of spending the next hour or two or more sitting and emoting and narrating and projecting my thoughts onto a screen, is just too much for me. At times like that, I can’t imagine moving my fingers as I do when typing. I can’t picture line after line of black text appearing on the white of the screen to make a staccato grey of it.

Imagine waking up at 5 AM, after turning in late the night before, and having to pull on running shoes and just go sprint for two hours. Imagine it’s bitter cold outside, below freezing, and your bed is warm. Imagine your muscles hurt. Imagine you’re exhausted. That’s what some days feel like. They feel as if getting started will take more energy than there is in the whole universe. They feel like even if you did get moving, you’re just going to burn like a fuse with too much current going through it.

I’m a morning writer. I get up early and I do all the things, the stuff that prepares me for my day. I take the dog out, and I clean up after her. I do my bible study and I do some morning reading, whatever non-fiction book I’m working through. I shower and I dress. I make coffee and check the mail, mostly so I can take a short walk to the box and call it a bit of exercise. And then I take my coffee upstairs, and sip while I jot down some thoughts in a Moleskine journal, filling a page to get a start on my day. And then I write.

On syrupy days like I described above, I have to pull the first words out of me, kicking and screaming. Me… that’s me kicking and screaming. The words are fine.

But once they start flowing…

I don’t do a lot of writing with a fountain pen these days. I own one, and it’s kind of a novelty. I like the idea of it, and want to write with it. I want to have an elegant script that I call my handwriting. Instead, I tend to write like a comic book letterer—block print, as neat as I can make it.

But when I’ve used a fountain pen, sometimes there’s been a long gap between that moment and the previous moment of writing. Enough time has passed that the ink has dried in the nib. And I have to dip it in some warm water and blot it with a bit of tissue to get it flowing again.

That’s what those syrupy-blood mornings feel like. That’s what it’s like to make myself write when nothing in me wants to do it. I’m soaking my muse in some warm water, and blotting at it with a bit of tissue, until finally it flows. Finally it stains. Finally it writes.

Those are rough days with rough starts, but I have to admit, once the writing starts to flow, it’s wonderful. It’s energy, passing through me. Damn the current, I’m no fuse now. I’m a low-gauge wire of many thick strands, and I can handle the load. The writing passes through me in megavolts. I can power a planet.

I don’t know for certain that it’s like this for any other writer, much less every other writer. But I suspect that in some way it is. That it has to be.

Getting started is the hard part. Pushing the boulder uphill is the hard part. Sprinting the first few feet, lifting the first few pounds, climbing the first few rungs, that’s the hard part. There are other hard parts, for sure. But the start is always the part that feels hardest, on those days when the blank page is an all-powerful foe. a weight of Sisyphus.

My advice? Make yourself start. Even if what you write is random and rambling, pointless and powerless, make a start. Open the valve and let the drip begin. Soon the whole frozen line will thaw, and it will just flow. You’ll have a harder time stopping it than you had starting it.

Canyons have been carved into the rock of the Earth by what started as a trickle. Drops can open a hole to the depths. Tiny scratches can widen into caverns. Time is one component, but so is effort. So is the work in motion.

You want a book? Write a word. Then two. Then fifty, a hundred, a thousand, sixty-thousand.

Not a writer? No worries. This advice is for you, too. Because it applies to working out and changing your car’s oil and mowing the lawn and taking care of sick kids and making a healthy meal. It applies to reading a thick book and doing your taxes. It’s the Law of Small. All things obey it. Everything starts this way.

Self discipline is born from the Law of Small. And anything you want to accomplish begins with that as your road map and as your fuel.

Obey that law, and big things get smaller.