So, last year I challenged myself to write some kind of coherent blog post for everyday in November. I’d been slacking in my literary/editorial pursuits and decided, like all truly distractible ideaphiles, that if I was going to get anything done, it’d have to be in the context of a regimented, disciplined every-damn-day-or-not-at-all dynamic.
So, I did. I wrote everyday, and a few friends joined me and it was profound.
This year, finds me less inspired. The momentum has slowed and I’ve found myself a heavier object to move. Used to be, words sat somewhere just below the earth’s surface. And and I’d just scrape a hand across her dusty face to find them. Nowadays, I have to dig.
Maybe, it’s because I actually do quite a bit of writing – so the words feel more diluted than they have before. Now I have to push the poetry uphill, but maybe that’s the way it should be.
When I think about it, about writing, the times its meant the most to me have never been when words have just danced themselves into order. I’m thankful for those times, to be sure, but I tend to forget about them.
It’s when I’m out of breath and out of hope, when the pen has dried and Plan-B has failed – I think it’s in that place where I most remember writing. So, in these times, I’ll try to write myself out of it – whatever it is. I write angry and fall asleep cold.
Then, I read it a week later. Mostly, I don’t discover that I’ve somehow channelled my inner-Fitzgerald. Usually, I find a bunch of angry verses thrown at the feet of a sober God. But, in those words, read in the context of the week’s healing, I find a beautiful, simple kind of grace.
So, I’m excited and already exhausted for these coming November nights. I’m praying that we’ll all come up empty a time or two and I’m praying that we remember to dig as deep as we need to. Maybe we find some words or maybe they find us – maybe, we find a good God in the middle of it all.