For the first time in months, I have a Thursday to sit in a cafe full of completely free time.
No computer work, no places to be, and I can’t help but study the moment to see where my attention turns. Facebook (no surprise), a few research questions I keep forgetting about…
And there it is, the itch to write.
I thought it was long-buried, probably under several seasons of some Netflix show. I gave over journaling many months back – but maybe I miss it more than I thought.
That feeling of free writing, letting those words roll, regardless of where they fall.
A friend asked me if I would be doing Nanowrimo again this year. Well no, not this year…but I have moments of hope that this possibility is not relegated to the category of never-never-goals.
Art is a tricky circus act, I find, as adult life progresses.
It’s important. There are stories to be told.
It’s vital. The art we’re given can not be ignored without snubbing that very part of us.
It’s doable. Excellence is important, but not as important as doing the best we can.
And it’s simple. All it takes is time.
So maybe on a Thursday afternoon or two this year, I’ll find the space to sit, be still and write all the nonsense.
Or maybe after all…this is just the coffee talking.