Sometimes when I get stuck, the easiest step to take is the most obvious.
So since I have no idea what to write about, I’ll write a super-short essay on… writing. Here we go.
I’ve come to realize something. I don’t want to forget my love of words, how they combine to form modified samplings of jumbled synapses. I don’t want to forget how my heart and mind feel—elated, energetic—when words shake themselves out of my skin and onto the keyboard. I don’t want to forget the way my thoughts merge and mingle with my laptop’s irregular rhythms—how the physical act of typing is somehow communicated in the telling. I don’t want to forget that the point of it all, anyway, is to transmit an experience; the feeling of writing (the spontaneity of it, the thoughtfulness of it, the persistence of it) is embedded in phrases and paragraphs. It’s beaten into the woodwork of the piece. I don’t want to forget the sanctity of this ancient profession. If I could hold a quill in my hand, or find a typewriter to pound on, I would. I want my words to change people—but that happens only because they’ve changed me.