Musings & Threads. Getting High.
One of the “rules” for a writer (and there aren’t many) is to write, every day.
Even if there is nothing brewing, sit down at the computer (it used to be the typewriter)
and write something, anything.
The theory being it will come, eventually. You’ll hit pay dirt.
This doesn’t work for me.
I start when I’m doing something else, anything else.
I start in my mind, with a slip of an idea. Maybe a phrase I just read.
Or a song turns up an idle thought.
Something lingers. I don’t know why, and I don’t question why.
And I play with the thought, add to it, tune it, in my mind - but still I put down nothing concrete.
And it percolates. Then one day, I wake up and know this is the day I will write.
I have to write.
There is a flush on my face. I may have woken up hazy but I’m touched by an angel today.
And my fingers fly, as if the thoughts themselves are typing, not me.
I’m not actively thinking, but somehow transcribing what has danced and slept in my mind.
I honestly can’t time it. It just happens (which may be part of the reason I believe in magic).
There it is, all of it, just waiting.
I ignore the crumbs on the floor (shouldn’t be eating in the living room anyway).
The vacuum sits idle.
The bed I promised myself I’d make after coffee is still unmade.
I have to get the words out because they’re ready. They’re the boss.
No struggle. No doubt.
It’s exhausting, true. I’m giving birth.
And I’m high.
“There is nothing to writing.
All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”