Some days, writing doesn’t come. I can’t just sit down and work on a story, even though I have words pressing into my fingers, wanting to come out, wanting to play. But I don’t know what they are, what story they belong to, or how to let them out.
On those days, sometimes, if I can sit and write, or type, without really thinking about it, letting my mind be quiet, watching the trees out the window, I can let the words come without looking too closely at them, as if, if I did, I’d spook them. They’re shy and deep and need encouragement but not too much staring, like a shy child who wants to be close but isn’t quite sure how to manage it.
Today, in the darkness of impending torrential rains, and the noise of the framers next door working on the second story floor, trying to get as much done as they can before lightning sends them for cover, I long to write. I’ve not been writing much for weeks, as I struggle to regain a writing mind after a too-long cold, a hack-up-a-lung cough, and a mental lethargy that makes thinking through anything a challenge.
Today, energy is stirring, at the base of my spine, in my throat, in my fingers – groping, searching for a way out, words looking for a story. And yet the story eludes me, and instead, I write this.
Maureen