I don’t know why I even hesitate to pick up a pen or set my fingers upon a keyboard.
I never regret it when I’m finished. Even if what I’ve written is total crap, there’s satisfaction in having put words on a page. A certain kind of alignment of the spirit in having successfully transformed the firing of neurons in my brain into something someone else can read. There’s a thrill in the possibility of setting off fireworks in someone else’s brain. Even if in the end what I’ve written is so terrible and unworthy of reading that I want to burn it, bury it and have a cow poop on it just so no one ever gets their hands on it, I’m still happy to have sat down and written.
There is always this arresting hesitation born of angst that takes hold when I’m about to sit down and write. Like if I pick up this pen the world might be set on fire, but not in a good way. Or if I click that first letter on the keyboard I might never be able to stop. Which in my opinion is not a bad way to die. In fact, it would be sort of awesome to be able to say I died whilst on a literary tirade, but also kind of a stumbling block to the other goals in my life if I died so prematurely. So there’s this hesitation to begin writing.
I do it anyway.
On good days.
On you’re going to sit your butt in this chair and write even if it is literally the last thing you do, days. On the world is a mystical place and you have to hurry up and get it down on paper, days. On the you’ve set this deadline for yourself and you’re going to meet it or you basically deserve to be dead, days. Notice how those days that smell like death came twice. They come a lot more often than the mystical ones.
But still, I write.
Once, I thought I could let the angst win out and watch my writing life evaporate on the pavement in front of me, like so much catapulted saliva. Slowly it swirled into the sky. I watched it with both eager anticipation and terror. Was this really happening? Was it working? Is all it takes some patient laziness? My small pond became a puddle, and it soon was small enough to fit in the palm of one hand.
it was gone.
Or so I thought.
I turned around and began walking away, ready to throw a party or surrender myself to the nearest volcano. To this day I don’t know which. Maybe both. In any case, something made me stop, turn around, and stoop real close to the ground. There on the pavement was a crack. And from that crack trembled a solitary drop of moisture, stubborn and hopeful. I crouched there squinting at it for a long time. Days, weeks, months. I was watching to see if it too would eventually join it’s brothers in the unforgiving sky, but it didn’t.
Or it wouldn’t.
I’m not sure which of these either.
All I know is that no matter how long I stared at it, that droplet did not fade away. And it was then that I knew in my gut that no matter how I long I watched, it would never go away. There was something deep beneath the ground ensuring its existence. Something annoying, and sure ,and as stubborn as me. It let me know that there was no amount of running or hiding or overwhelming ray of angst that would burn that droplet away.
Ever since then, I pick up the pen and set my fingers on the keyboard because I have to. Or at least I might as well. Anytime I get too anxious about what I’m doing with this writing thing or why, I just squint down at that familiar crack. Even if it’s too deep down at the bottom of the spring for me to see.