Member-only story
Writing Doesn’t Fix Everything
But It Fixes Me
It was one of those mornings.
An argument broke out at home — sharp words, tense faces, the kind of fight that leaves the air heavy. I didn’t see it coming, but once it started, it took over everything. I was upset. Tired. Somewhere between angry and drained. I walked around the house, but nothing felt right. Not the chair I usually sit in, not the walls I know so well.
I told myself, “There goes the day. My mind is clouded. No writing’s going to happen today.”
I wanted to run away — not far, just enough to feel the breeze somewhere by the water. That old idea that nature heals, or maybe just distracts. The beach seemed like the easiest escape. But before I reached for the keys, something inside whispered, “Try.”
So I sat down.
No grand decision. No inspiration. Just me, a screen, and the tension still tightening my chest. I clicked through some old files, dragged the cursor across ideas I had parked days ago. One of them lit up inside me like a match.
And just like that, I began to write.
Not furiously. Not flawlessly. But consistently. Line after line, like drops falling from a leaking sky. Thirty minutes later, something shifted. The weight I had carried from the morning… it was gone…
