Snowflakes dotted the roof outside our bathroom window this morning. I don’t have a photo, because frankly I knew I wouldn’t get a decent one with steam clouding the view. Also, minutes matter in the mad rush of working out, getting the kids to school, and getting myself to work. I’m trying to remember these posts are about sitting in the chair and writing, not necessarily about presenting an aesthetic image of my thoughts.
(But what is a set of November posts without many mentions of the weather, the transitional season between wishing for unexpected warm days and the relentless slog of winter in Michigan?)
More censored than a journal and less polished than posts of the past, these words might not mean all that much when I look back at them later. Writing, whether I like it or not, involves practice and repetition more than flashes of brilliance. I hope it does, at least, because I haven’t felt many of those flashes lately.
I miss those moments, glimpses of stories that feel like they could be magic if I could find the time to sit and write them. Now, I’m in front of the keyboard, and those flashes remain elusive, like the snow dotting the roof, sure to be gone with the rising of the sun.
The other day, I told Ryan I think part of the reason I’m tired lately is that I’m holding everything tightly, worries coil around my brain and heart, using energy that could be used for something else. I don’t know how to relax those coils, though movement and meditation both help in the immediate moment.
Perhaps I’m making excuses, but I feel like those coils of fear and adrenaline are choking off the inspiration I used to crave in order to write.
Now I’m forcing out words and keeping my fingers crossed that some of the magic might come during the editing, because it sure doesn’t feel like it’s hitting the page in drafting form. When my fingers hesitate and when the words don’t flow, I try talking to myself the way I would talk to a friend struggling with productivity. Anything is better than nothing. You can’t edit a blank page. A terrible draft is still a draft.
Cliches. Truths. Different sides of the same coin, really.
Like the way today’s smattering of snowflakes promises more to come later in the season, I hope I am entering a productive season of writing, where the smallest ideas grow substantial when piled together.
With practice, I might make them into something beautiful.
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