I make excuses. That my desk is a mess; that I’m tired; that I don’t know where to begin. And at leas that last part it’s true: I don’t know where to begin.
I can feel the grave way that I’ve fallen out of practice. The way the sentences don’t line up readily, evenly. The way things feel off kilter and I am impatient with sitting down to begin. But more than impatience, or off kilter, I can feel the way I’m right at the edge of something that’s been building, and if I start, the words will tumble out, saturating everything, reclaiming my present tense with the sudden brute force of a flood.
It's like this: If I don't write with consistency, it's almost like I stop knowing who I am.
My soul becomes a flume of driftwood and turbulence.
I'm telling you this because I have so many other things I want to tell you: about my trip to NYC, about my book, about this space and big things that I have planned for it, but whenever I sit down't to start, I can't stop writing, and the words I put on the page are these: wild and willful. That escape me, a sluice of sentences, and I am forced to remember that this is what, above all else, I am made to do.
What about you? What craft calls you? What claims you, marks you, and makes you whole?