Disclaimer: there will be whining.
I miss writing. I miss when writing meant writing and not submitting, or making a book, or editing a book, or promoting a book, or trying to schedule readings to promote a book, or networking, or tweeting, or blogging (ahem). I miss feeling like there is never enough paper, like I should turn to napkins, walls, the dirt or sand, the sky, any surface, with any tool, so long as I get it all down.
My new project is big and I've had a couple false starts. Couple five yard penalties. I need to throw the goddamn ball and hope for the best instead of just hanging back like a blitz-shy punk.
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| I miss football, too. |
The light at the end of the proverbial tunnel is that
I'm reading every day, reading until my eyes fall out of my head at night, reading anything and everything I can get my hands on. And reading lit mags, too. I usually do that, read a lot, before entering a really generative writing phase. Here's hoping.
I carry one of those pocket moleskin journals, and my favorite brand of pen, with me everywhere. I do my private writing in there. The writing that isn't for work. The poetry. But I never write in that little black journal enough. Sigh. Thank you for writing this. I enjoyed reading it. I hope your generative writing phase is upon you shortly. Be well.
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