Yesterday, I decided to write. So I sat down with my computer and a mug of hot chocolate, and I wrote. Words poured out. I tend to edit as I go, so perhaps the process could better be described as floods of ideas being directed through narrow pipes where they were allowed to build up force and speed even as they were refined, until they finally burst forth onto the screen.
It felt really good.
And I realized something.
I need to write. Whether I am experimenting with unfamiliar styles (such as the poem I wrote last night, my first poem in years!) or taking refuge in structures I know well, writing grounds me. Writing commits me to myself.
So I promised myself I would write every day. I shared that promise with friends and supporters on Facebook.
This is a world where it’s hard to pay attention. Too many things clamor for us. Too many words. If it’s too long, we stop reading. Not enough time.
And yet I would happily spend hours each day configuring and reconfiguring words, or curled up in my new reading chair with paper, a clipboard, and a pen, writing a long, thoughtful letter to a friend.
Will others read my words? Does it matter? Yes and no.
I write this as a record of a promise made. I call writing my sacred ritual. I will take time each day to write something for myself. I bless myself as a writer. I know that it matters.