It’s been a while, I know. I can
tell by your hesitation, lack of eye contact, the blinking cursor. You worry
that you have nothing to say, that the best you could put to paper happened
when you were twenty, starry-eyed and inspired, waxing poetic about your
newness to New York, to love and beer, to skinny jeans and the world.
You learned how to write when you
were lovesick, heartbroken, jilted. You wrote to help you cope, forget,
remember. Remember during that first, drawn out break up? Yeah, that was some
good stuff.
At school, you learned to edit. You
learned the practical things that Real Writers know. Trim the fat, to show not
tell, to write what you know. You
learned that people used to make money writing. Not anymore, though.
Now you’re in the real world, with
a real, 9 to 5 where you use your brain and make money, settled in with someone
you love. You have nothing to be sad about. You’re happy, but you don’t write
all that much, mostly because all of a sudden, it feels like you’ve got nothing
to write about. Is there even such a thing as a happy writer?
First, muster up the courage to
look at a blank sheet, a blinking cursor, a pen in hand. Then sit. And wait. Be
patient. Writing again takes time, and (did you forget?) it’s never been easy.
Be honest with yourself. Let it be
bad. At least you’ve got words on paper. Don’t get frustrated—see, there? You’ve
already started your first sentence.
Remember those secrets that were
too new to tell, and the things you didn’t want him to see? You can unearth
that now. Dust off the half-thoughts—doubt
can make us stronger; is happiness just nostalgia?; siblings torn apart by
loss; is Michael Strahan really the new Regis? Let. It. Out.
Remember the reason you needed to write in the first place, that these were your secrets, for strangers. Remember that you are just a husk, the vessel for something else. Let it pass through you, and keep only the things you need...
OK. Now go write.
