satisfied mind.

I am feeling very stubborn. I don't want to write and I definitely don't want to write anything particularly beautiful or inspiring. I want my fingers to do their thing, somewhat removed from my brain and beating heart. I want some words to spill out of me and be cut off. I want to cast them out.

For my sake, I've told myself that I can write anything tonight. I can write anything as long as it's something. No order no structure no meaning no censor just write write write. My pride resists being told what to do, it resists criticism and even encouragement. But someone very wise said to me last night, "Write about it, write about it, write about it." I dropped my eyes and mumbled, "Ok. But maybe I don't want to write about it, maybe I just want to talk about it."

But he knew that really, I wanted to write about it. Or needed to. Whatever.

I feel angry sometimes. Angry over injustice in the world, over the suffering that is ignored, over the hurt and pain caused in the name of money or religion. I feel sad sometimes. Sad because people die and life is sometimes dull and we can never accomplish all that we hope. I feel discouraged sometimes. I cry when I shouldn't, I procrastinate when I should work, I read books by writers who are not very good but seem to be making a lot of money. People that I love dearly are unhappy sometimes, they work too hard, they don't have the things that they want, they feel dissatisfied and incomplete. There are other people that I want to love, but I don't try hard enough. The man at the corner rattling the cup for change. The neighbor who never says hello. And others, just the people all around. We should be loving them all. I don't always do it.

there is time.

For the past two weeks I've been working on something.  Yesterday I crossed the start line. I'm not sure what a finish line even looks like, but I know the feeling of starting. Moving past an idea and randomness in the brain to something real, words sentences paragraphs pages.

I don't even care what happens to it. I don't care if I file it away forever. It's been a very long time since I've worked on something that I can actually call a piece. More than rambling, journaling, freewriting, etc. I needed to remember how to do it.

I've been writing on dark things. Back to the light. People, laughing, cold air, cribbage, hot drinks, oysters. Just life really. Just living hard is all.

I've been reading through some of the collected letters of Anton Chekhov thanks to a recommendation from this blog. I'm feeling startled by how much his words are resonating with me right now. I am reminded again -- yes, sometimes writing hurts. But even now, even still, there is time.

I am writing and wondering how many times tonight my whole body will be racked with pain for my presumption in daring to be a writer. - Anton Chekhov, letter to Alexander Chekhov, 8 November 1882

Some days I stare at the page or the screen and type word after word about nothing. I write about the color of the sky and the way the concrete feels beneath my bare feet and feeling sleepy and hot. Some days I sit down with the weight of the world right behind me. Yesterday:

I am going to write today about religion and feeling alone and feeling lonely and speaking up and remembering and making peace with your thoughts and being healed. And sin and guilt and fear.

I still don't understand the process, I don't know how or when or why or if I can create something. I just keep on.

All my hopes are on the future. I am still only twenty-six. It may be that one day I shall manage to achieve something, although time is rushing by quickly. - Anton Chekhov, letter to Dmitry Grigorovich, 28 March 1886