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It’s one thing to say you’re going to write even when – or especially when – it’s hard. It’s another to do it. Sort of like how it’s one thing to say, “I’m going to eat better,” or “I’m going to exercise three times a week,” or “I’m going to spend less time on my phone,” or, or, or . . . what-have-you.
Easy to say. Harder to do. Hardest of all to keep doing.
When the writing’s easy it’s almost harder not to write. The words build up and overflow like a flooding river; you scramble, always a bit behind – some creaking waterwheel, spinning so fast you’re afraid you’ll come apart.
When it’s hard, you feel empty. Spent. You have nothing to say, because the words are used up. Or the ones you have left are hollow and silly: you can’t make them make sense. You’re not sure any of your words ever made sense. You’re scraping at barren rock, as if trying will get you something, but why should it?
Because . . .
Because sometimes the rock gives way. Sometimes the floodwaters return. Words come to the blank page, whether it’s the first or the hundredth, or the six hundredth. And you have to be ready for them.
Well. You don’t have to be ready for them. There’s plenty of other things to do. But I want to be ready for them. And in order to be ready for them, I have to be here, with my pen. Believing there can be more – believing that something can come from what feels empty.
Today, it was the next bit of story. Tomorrow, I’ll be back here, ready.
And trying again.