Daily Practice

imageInspired by my friend Andi who writes and posts every day, despite being the owner of a farm with goats and other farm-type things of whose existence I remain blissfully unaware, and having the distinct honor of driving my daughters to school an hour before I clock in for work, I find myself most mornings at the local ubiquitous coffee and sundries place with the cool kids.

I have a mere half hour, and my thoughts are as scattered as the route I took to get here, but I sit and I listen and I’m challenging myself to write.

If training for a marathon is something that takes months, then being and becoming a writer takes every day. After a marathon, after twenty weeks of long miles, and countless laps around a track, and hundreds of hours of tempo runs and battery life on the old Garmin, the runner can rest. She can sit back and let her muscles and her mind recover from the beating she laid on it. She can decide to run or not. She can sleep in and stay up late. She can have another glass of wine on a Friday night.

The writer? The writer must write. She must lasso the errant fragments and wrestle them into submission. Of a sort. Or an illusion of that. Which works, too, for the writer, since isn’t it all artifice?

The goal migh initially be publication, but she soon learns that writing isn’t really about reading. It’s not really about audience or persuasion or accolades, because those rarely come and when they do, we understand their illusory nature.

A name in print is nothing. A collection of necessary words or a well-written sentence that captures something ethereal or illusive or dangerours or hurtful or angry? That is power. But not just power. It is humanity. It is chiseing a layer and finding the raw skin, pressing into the flesh and finding the soft, weak untried spot and circling it with bold, ineluctable marker. It is to call out the joy, the harvest, the something of being human. The more than life, bigger than breath weight of a life lived. And words are my way, they are they sense of it. They are the elegant equation, the portrait, the bar of notes that resound with me.

What is yours?