The question of how often should a writer write is often asked and the answer is yes, a writer writes often. If it is often enough tells a different story. Enough is enough, except when it isn’t. Writing with full attention amid distractions tips the half empty glass toward overflowing. There is a use in crying over spilled ink. The blood of a story, or a poem only comes alive when shed onto the page.
This pulse has it’s trickles and torrents. Many spells are not worded the same. Our inner dialogue is logged to address the questions of who, what, when, why, where, and possibly how. Begin, and again, then and now, compete, or compliment, our future construction.
I’m awake, at 3:00 a.m., because an empty page ran away from home, and tripped an alarm at the border of what bothers and what comforts me. I miss the handshake of a friend who’s moved to the mountains, the laugh of my father that I do my best to imitate, the rationale of an argument that drops accusation accurately. The pen, part lightening rod, part stethoscope, moves against the grain of inertia as I stoop to tie the perspective of an unknown shoe to a well worn path, or vice versa if I’m to believe Robert Frost.
It’s no day at the beach unless we haul back the stones bumping the blanket. Jacob’s dream pillow, hard as rock, softened the blow of his isolation. Do not disturb hangs like the numbers of a mugshot once we’ve uncovered the conviction to get something down on paper. The legacy of letters, like lilting flowers in an irreplaceable vase, looks better in the light of day, but it’s the dark, the quiet, that speeds the time to blossom.