Yesterday, I lost my job and will need another one, but for now I have a gift of time. This morning I woke, made coffee, jotted a few thoughts in my notebook, then sat down at my manual typewriter. Thoughts on yesterday’s experience poured forth through my fingers. It was wonderful to start writing and not have to stop because I had to check in with the office.
All told, I wrote for almost two hours in three different mediums, from which I have a couple lines I am truly happy with, a micro-story that needs editing, and a lot to work with if it later suits my daemon. All to say, as the writers reading this can attest, writing is a process that is ultimately done for no one, but rather to save yourself. I don’t have any expectations of my writing, but I give space for the ideas to come through me and that they do.
Over the years, I’ve become less concerned with how or why or where they come, but simply have accepted them as a given. The words that come through me, at times, tell my story, but more so they simply use me to get out into the world. I often don’t know what they want to say or who their audience is intended to be. The words coming through me must know there isn’t much insofar as an audience so I believe they simply must need to exist. It’s my role to let them use me to lurch into this world – some idea on the wind that I am blessed to catch as a sail and give direction – though they more oft direct me.