Lately I've shortened the time I spend writing in the morning.
In part it's an effort to re-charge my energy after a busy month and give myself a rest. The chance to rest will, I hope, help replenish the well out of which all words come.
Every so often I think the well, which feels close to empty now, needs time to refill itself.
I don't remember the last time I took a break. All I know is that month after month words have flowed from my pen, and that I've held the pen waiting to see what emerged.
I never know what word will appear until its shape forms on the page beneath my pen. It's part of the mystery of how writing works.
This process of stepping into the mystery day after day, and not knowing what I'll find, is part of what keeps drawing me back to the page.
I try not to have any expectations (just hope that I'll be able to write something).
It's like receiving a gift, the feel of the pen in my hand, the sensation of moving the pen across the page, the sound of the nib scraping the paper, the sign of words appearing, as if by magic, on the page.
And maybe what draws me back, too, is the simple act of leaving words behind on a page like footprints in the sand.
Evidence to show that I existed, at least for a day.
Before the waves of time wash the words away.
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