Cade sat alone on the porch sipping his coffee as light crept over the horizon. The branches of nearby trees swayed to and fro as a gentle breeze swept past. It was the dawn of a new day and a chill was in the air. Cade began each day in a similar fashion. It was his routine, and he was if anything a creature of habit.

He woke at 5am on the dot, made a pot of coffee and sat on the front porch reading his bible. As soon as the sun came up, he would refill his coffee cup for the second time and go for a walk. Cade would take at least two walks each day, morning and evening. When the mood hit him just right, he’d even mix in a short afternoon walk after lunch. It was his special time to be alone with his thoughts.

He kept a small notebook tucked into his back pocket, just in case inspiration struck—and it usually did. Cade’s desk was littered with notes and thoughts that hit him while lost in the wilds of nature. One day he would be mulling over some problem of life and the next enthralled with the wonders of creation. His notes were just as scattered in subject as they were in position.

He didn’t know what to do with this ever growing assortment of words. He had too much of an emotional attachment to discard them, and yet little clue how to put them to use. Every day when he returned from his walk, he’d place his new notes on top of the desk, or in a drawer and turn his attention to other things. The result was a tangled mess of observations, thoughts and ideas gathering dust on an old man’s desk.

One day, the phone rang. It was his buddy Scott who like Cade, had an ever mounting collection of little notes. Scott didn’t know what to do with his anymore than Cade did, but that morning genius had hit him. “What if?” How many lives have turned on that little phrase. Two magic words, soaked with power. The power to change destinations and rewrite destinies. When Cade heard the phrase, his heart leapt. It was the opportunity he’d been waiting for and now it had arrived.

The next morning Cade sat down at his desk, after his first walk of the day, and began to organize the scattered bits of paper covering its top. Soon he found himself pulling out his typewriter and pounding out new ones. He did this day after day, for months on end. Just when his wife would think he was done, he’d refill his cup, and return to the keyboard. His fingers danced across the keys with the precision and ease of a concert pianist as he composed page after page until at last he was finished with his task.

What had been percolating in his heart for years on end, came pouring out and he loved it. He had found an outlet and taken the first step forward. He had something to say, and it didn’t matter if anyone else ever saw it. He needed to do the work. For far too long, Cade had ignored the gentle nudge prodding him from within. “Write,” it whispered in his ear. He’d ignored that voice for year after year until, at long last it got his attention.

It was 5:45 in the morning, and Warner was sitting in front of his computer screen. He was staring at the screen without the faintest idea what to say. What seemed like hours past and still he remained glued to his seat, eyes fixed on the blinking line and not a clue what to write.

Warner was all too familiar with writer’s block or whatever it was that brought his free flow of words and ideas to a sudden halt. In fact, he’d just written a piece detailing the methods of various authors in dealing with the inevitable dry spell. It was all fresh in his mind.

He knew writers like Steven Pressfield, William Zinsser, or Maya Angelou would tell him to just write something. They’d tell him to keep showing up every single day and putting words on the page. They’d tell him not to worry about what he was producing, but to focus on the simple act of putting whatever was swimming around in his brain, down on the page.

Warner new these things and yet in his chair he remained, still, silent, not making a move, not typing a single word. What was wrong with him? He had the solution to his problem, all he needed to do was act.

He could feel the tension, anxiety and anger building up within. His chest was tight, his heart was pounding and his mind felt like a giant nutcracker had him in its grasp. It was quickly becoming something beyond his control and the cold logic of his mind gave way to wild, untamed emotions. As the heat became too much to bear, Warner exploded with fury.

He grabbed the nearest object to him and flung it across the room. Luckily the nearest object was a fat yellow highlighter he had left out the night before, and his unplanned and uncontrolled outburst only resulted in that fat little highlighter hitting the couch. The fury of his throw and the meager result only served to insight greater angst and frustration in Warner. He didn’t know what to do, he was at his wit's end.

And then in an act of defiance he started detailing his morning and frustrations. One paragraph, then two and so on he went, until he was staring at three pages of output. The dam had broken and Warner was now back in the saddle again. He was elated and couldn’t believe his production after such a putrid beginning to the day.

Not too long after completing his task, he looked up to see his wife. Unaware of the struggle Warner had endured and the painstaking process he’d underwent to accomplish his writing goal that day, she simply smiled and said good morning. Warner sprang from his seat, kissed his wife and gleefully walked to the kitchen with her.

He told her all about his battle with his inner critic and the hills he had to climb in getting pen to page. And then in the midst of it all, a strange and terrifying notion struck him, what if it happened all over again tomorrow? Would he be able to push through? Would he be able to stare down the monsters within a second time?

In less than 24 hours he would be sitting in front of the same screen, staring at the same blank page, asking inspiration to strike once more. It plagued him all through the day. There was rarely a moment in which it wasn’t lurking in the back of his mind, almost as if it were taunting him.

He awoke the next day and headed straight for his desk. Armed with nothing more than a hot cup of coffee and an eagerness to see what today’s session would hold. He sat down and to his surprise his inner demons we're if anything punctual. Warner was depressed. After all he’d been through the previous morning, he thought his troubles might be over, they weren’t.

It was a new day, requiring new courage. When he realized this, he started pounding the keyboard, stroke by stroke until his goal for the day was done. He’d done it once more. He showed up and so did the muse. He may have been a little tardy but better late than never.

Warner was beyond excited, two days in a row—he was making progress. His wife walked into the room and the conversation repeated itself, along with the nagging self doubt that plagued him.

Such is the story of Warner’s life. He is a writer and each day is a grind. He has to show up each and every day ready to do battle with his inner doubts until his muse comes riding on a white horse to rescue him.

His muse doesn’t call ahead or make an appointment. He doesn’t let Warner know when of if he’ll strike. He works by his own rules, and on his own schedule. Warner has zero control over him, but he can control himself. He can show up each and every day. He can get up everyday and plop himself down in front of a new blank page. Everyday won’t go smoothly and there will be too many days where he feels like a failure, but if he keeps showing up again and again at least his muse will know where to find him. Showing up as they say, is half the battle.