Whenever I sit down to write something, to get the stuff out of my head, I write something I didn’t intend to write. In my head, it’s perfect and pure and straight, but when I try to get it out, when I sit down with the page and my keyboard, the thread get’s squiggly and tangled and ends in a ball. I think I try to straighten it out and unwind it with scraps of paper or other things I’ve written that may spark or turn loose what I have in my head, but it doesn’t work. It is difficult to coax a turtle out once he has pulled in his head. All it would take is one word, one sound or smell, yet, he still remains until everything is quiet, until it’s still and safe to come out.

I have read about other writers, famous ones, that turn to Buddhist practices or alcohol or big cookies to coax the turtle, but none of these is right for me: I am Christian, I don’t drink because alcoholism runs in my family, and I already enjoy cookies on a deeply spiritual level. When I have written the most and the best, is when I’m not thinking about the turtle. It’s when I haven’t stumbled upon him on the path and put a camera in his face, but I just go about my business, and let him go his way toward the water or from the leaves. When I make a spectacle of him, he shuts down.

So, with this insight, I will continue to learn more about the ways of the turtle, or writing craft, whatever, and spend more time on the path, also known as butt in chair, and let the turtle get used to me.