At turns I come to write, to give an attentive yes to the creative rattle within but find the ink of originality dry so I shush the suspicions confirming my fear that I am, in fact, boring not blocked and I pat my ego and console my soul by reading great writing.
Reading as palpitation and resuscitation to a dormant, stalled idea – the dance of writing and reading and keeping a heart of awareness awake to let in the light, hell, to find the light, unearth the light, unearth the connection, unearth the words from the rabble that threatens to suffocate.
Then, at turns, as I am faithful to sit and offer hospitality to the sprites of creative collaboration – as I set a place at the table – inspiration collides with ability and even as she whisks herself forever forward my needy pleas fall to her feet and my lips thank her for visiting at all.
In a rare stroke of luck the lines of pen, passion, and purpose transfuse into life-breath of being then in a post-publish-panic I convince myself of subconscious plagiarism – because can I actually be as good as that phrase – and frantically re-read every word of importance that has recently crossed my path to clear or condemn the fear of fraud.
And that, my friends, is what it feels like to write.