What do you not write about?

Not a day goes by when I don’t read some essay about someone who is or wants to be a writer, bemoaning the fact that they don’t know what to write about, the well has gone dry, the creative spark has extinquished.

What do I write about? Give me a prompt, show me the way…

I can’t identify with this because my head is constantly and forever writing prose. I write narratives in my head of me in the third person, looking at me doing something banal, like walking up a flight of stairs, sitting on a park bench, staring at a piece of wrought iron railing. Sometimes I throw these things away, sometimes I throw them on Medium and sometimes I tuck them away in my head, in my own private little vault.

But I never have nothing to write about; quite the opposite—I have too much.

To always know what to write, to write better, see the world around you. See yourself. See others.

See the way her hair twirls around her neck, how her nose turns up slightly on her profile, how her cheeks and lips purse when she thinks a thought she dare not say. Look into her eyes and see the soul that aches for a moment of rest, prone against your open thigh, but dare not ask for it.

See yourself seeing her and how she sees you. How would you write that? Would you toss that away or tuck it into your head where nobody but you will read it? Or will you share small bits on Medium just in case she sees it?

See. Feel. Write.

Find the words.

Whenever I don’t have a photo to illustrate a story, I just look up. The sky is an amazing vault of wonder for me, at once a reminder that all things are possible yet still unattainable.