The problem is, writing a new thing every day cold is no way to do anything right. So I feel the quality of these is decreasing, and I worry that by the end of the year they’ll be trash. I know in my logicbrain that’s not true. My logicbrain doesn’t always have control over my thoughts.
I’m hoping this is the hump I have to get over to really get into the good stuff, which is what they call the stuff that gets published, or at least I think it is. That’s what I want, right? Honestly, I’m not as sure as I think I was in seventh grade, when I started writing in earnest, little terrible poems that were, nonetheless, beautiful in their earnestness. Or that’s what I’m telling myself.
Nothing is ever final in my mind. There is no finishing a thought, putting it away, never to be taken down again. Sooner or later, I’ll run over it with my thumb, wearing down the smooth places again, turning it over and over until it goes back up. For a little while. Is that effort, that running-over? Are there answers to any questions?
I’m doing this to clear out the cobwebs, I’ll say. To burn out the pipes to make room for the flow of creativity, for good poems, stories, children’s books, whatever. To get ready to show everyone what’s going on. To get ready to begin.
But I’ve already begun, and this is it. This is me writing. The best isn’t the only way to do something right.