The digital world and I are reluctant partners.

We understand that on several occasions, we are very good for each other. We produce creative ideas together. Efficiently. Swiftly.

It’s what they call ‘prolific’.

But like a little less salt in your dinner, there is something that remains amiss in this relationship.

And so, to this day, a regular keepsake that I almost always have on me is a pencil and a tiny moleskin journal. It has to be a pencil, a pen does not have the same texture. Same urgency.

This pencil is for days when even with elaborate to do lists, clear project deadlines and plenty of avenues for inspiration, I cannot get started.

So I open and close one article after another, one newsfeed and another, trying to find a place that can push me to begin.

Until, in desperation, I pick up that pencil and connect the lead to paper.

And today, when I did the same, this happened:

Must Write.

Must use this pencil and these fingers to follow the cursive.

For clarity. That escapes me right now.

That piece of me. Which I yearn for, telling myself that I don’t have it.

Even though, it may be just the self doubt talking. Perhaps it’s always been there.

I’ve just haven’t looked hard enough.

None of that was supposed to be awe striking or magnificent. Well, I know it is far from it. But at least it dusted off the brain cells to actually get something done.

‘All you need to do is write one true sentence’ — Ernest Hemingway.

Just get started. At the end, that is all that will matter.

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