writing

Small parts of me fade away sometimes and in those times I am less likely to write. Perhaps lately has been those times. I have had no motivation to place my most inner thoughts on display for anyone else to see.

I have heard it said that writing is hard and that it is painful because when we do it, whether we think we have something to say or have no idea what words will find themselves to a page, the things that come out are often a surprise; words can come from places we did not know were there.

Sometimes I sit down and think I am well and I write and my fears and failures spill out like the glass of water my friend’s child just spilled when she tried to pour from a large pitcher herself. Sometimes I am quite sure that I am falling apart and I find myself writing of hope and promise with a conviction I thought I had lost.

So writing is scary because it requires we let go control. We face blinding white space and we allow the inky mess of ourselves spill all over the page in whatever manner it pleases. We write when we do not know if we have anything to say and when we think we do, we do our best to get out of the way while the words surface on paper.