My wife got me writing again. She was to write 3 pages a day, a practice from the book The Artists Way by Julia Cameron, she asked if I wanted to do it. “Fuck it, sure.” That was it. I have not been able to stop. I will wake and write until I physically am unable to do so. There is something so simple yet immensely pleasurably to sit and write. My thoughts are my own, but they come from somewhere else, they are a product of 41 years of mistakes and triumphs, insights and perspectives that somehow have led to the tip of a pen. All the chaos that circles around me is brought up and out. I am a willful servant to this. In this I have found salvation.
I have always loved words, spoken or written. I don’t know where it comes from and fear that we have given it away. This thing that moves the pen, it speaks to you, it is you. Unfiltered and with intent, unafraid of what is to come. Most times I can’t keep up with “it.” Letters and words get formulated together before the one is finished. Influencing spacing, symmetry, formality, and soul. Letters that dance across lines or at times, fighting to get seen, filling pages, covering walls, billboards, whatever, a dusty car, a foggy window, few things are safe from mans natural want to write, to create, to exist, to leave a mark and claim a small piece of this place he calls home. Words carry power, they instill fear and hope within the same breath. Leaving behind stories to whoever is willing to look.
That’s why typing on a computer is bullshit. Get up, sit the fuck down and write.
