Here I am, poised with a mental pen, thoughts slipping away as I try to find the right verbal adhesive to will and patch together the existence of Somewhat Original Thought. Moving from blank page to a single sentence of consequence is the most difficult thing to do when you’re the sort of naive completionist like I am.
I used to write, or some semblance of it, years ago. Some was shared with other humans, but most were left as a cozy union of ink and paper stashed away in a damp shelf. Wrangling words always felt like the only craft I could necessarily apply in any short amount of time and completing before I felt too frustrated with my lack of skill and interrupted myself with a vote of no confidence.
There are always a lot of hows or whys involved in writing; write something every day! Just start! Sit at your desk with your fingers on the keys and just hammer away until you have some semblance of sense!
I can’t seem to hack or fool my brain into these types of menial exercises anymore, possibly because I’m the last person able to motivate myself by misdirection. They say, go with what means you can muster, until you exercise a mentality of muscle memory to apply habit to come up with the end.
OK, blank page, I got you. I riddled you with big fat letters of minimal gravitas. Let’s see how this tango fares tomorrow…ish.