I sit down and begin to write a story about a show that I went to see the day after Christmas. I write two paragraphs, then lose myself in a trail of thought while staring at a blinking cursor.
I lose forty-five minutes thinking about what details are relevant to reveal. I emerge on the other side of my thoughts with no will to continue.
I shelve it.
Maybe it’s a story I’ll tell someday, but not today. It feels too dense.
In truth, I don’t really know what story I want to tell right now.
Words don’t flow freely off my fingers, and I assign a judgement to every idea that crosses my mind.
In times past, hitting this sort of wall in expression might have triggered a spiral of self-defeating thoughts. The inner critic a bully with unrelenting antagonism. Self-loathing so heavy and exhausting that it sucks the very will to live out of the room.
This is not where I am now.
I can sit with not knowing what to say and just accept that it’s so.
I don’t have to hate myself for not having a statement prepared that will change the world instantaneously.
The fact that I’ve written anything at all…. Well, all it means is that I’ve begun.
Nobody said it had to be good.