She said, “I want to write every day in May. Not just in my journal. I won’t do that “kind” of writing, writing meant for my eyes only. I want to continue to write what is true for me but couched in a way, hopefully, that others will understand it.”
She challenged me and many others to do the same. To see what might happen. Just to see.
And something inside of me said, yes. Yes, I will do this. Despite the fact I’ve not written anything for years. That is, nothing I’d even want to show you.
Quite honestly, other than scribbling nonsense in my journal, it hasn’t been possible for me to write. Not like I used to. Not in the giddy, fluttery flow of irrepressible words. Not with any urgent impulse to express. Three years ago, I used to sit for hours at Rough Draft and words upon words would pour onto pages and pages in my spiral notebook. Words about Having. Beauty. Love. Lack. Desire. Daily amazements.
It was a rush, a delight, to write in this way. I loved words and they loved me, and we would play for hours together.
But in June of 2020, all of that came to a screeching halt. For no other reason than my mind refused to let words come. I would sit at my table with my notebook, twirling my pen in my right hand, and wait. For something, anything to move through my mind and onto the page. But it was as if my mind had turned to vapor, completely empty of thought or idea or word.
I still showed up to the page, just in case. Sometimes I would try to reach and wrangle words from some flat and barren desert of myself, desperate to somehow wring water from sand. It didn’t work. I would write words but they were as substantial as dust.
Recently, say, since the end of March, I’ve felt the old flow returning. Not in full force. Not in the same way. It’s slower and quieter and less caffeinated. But, it’s there. Along with my desire to write, which never left me. Not for a split second. My desire to write has burned like an eternal flame these past three years. I just couldn’t do it. I was unable to. And that combo of fierce desire and inability broke my heart.
Now, there’s this challenge, this opportunity, this invitation to write and just see where it goes. I’m saying yes. I promise nothing. Only my faithful attempt to be honest, show up consistently, and make myself available to what wants to come through… and write it.