
I've been writing more lately. In the mornings after I walk the puppies, I settle in at my desk and actually put pen to paper - no laptop. This morning writing practice is new and experimental. I have no idea what will rise up when I sit down to write. Yesterday morning I wrote a list of all the things I wanted in my next new-old house. When I was done, I realized I was stepping into a new-old vision. The last few weeks, as the sun burned up the lawn in the late mornings and the puppies pouted because I wouldn't let them play outside because of the heat, I wrote about anger and rage (new writing workshop coming in October - Writing Through Anger).
When I'm done writing for the morning, I'm surprised. Surprised by the insights that are right there, just waiting for me to put the pieces together. Surprised by the language that's there for the taking. Surprised to know that after all these years, this craft, this art is still here for me in ways I'd not allowed myself to think about for a very long time. This morning, I put on some old Rolling Stones, gave in to an icy Diet Pepsi, settled in. As black ink filled a page - then two, three, four - in my notebook, old thoughts and ideas about plot lines and characters were waiting for me. In fact, the idea of writing a short story or novella or book is so scary and so exciting that I stopped what I was writing and picked up a book instead. Because where would I start? I flipped open Natalie Goldberg's "Writing Down the Bones," and picked up where I'd left off...
"As writers we are always seeking support. First we should notice that we are already supported every moment. There is the earth below our feet and there is the air, filling our lungs and emptying them. We should begin from this when we need support. There is the sunlight coming through the window and the silence of the morning. Begin from these...."
And there you have it.
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