Yesterday I wrote about feeling a complete lack of creativity. About feeling like my writing was dead in a way; like there was no reason nor purpose, no energy, for writing. With thoughts slipping away from writing and possibilities, turning toward schedule figuring and bill computation and piling on appointments.
In the process of writing about a dearth of writing energy and impulse I went through a back door. I bypassed The Way to Write. I bypassed the lessons of Right and Wrong, of Grammar, and Higher Learning; of the Golden Ring of Literary Merit.
By writing about being unable to find the writing path I opened the alternate door and wrote.
And I'm sitting here, again, at the computer. Writing about writing.
One lesson I know for certain about writing is that, when it feels like I will never or should never write again, the one thing I must certainly do is write.
Close my eyes and write. Write that I'm not writing. Even write down "the worst shit in America," as Ariel tells us.
Just write.
And the writing will return.
Not only the writing returned, but also creativity. And ideas for future projects. And renewed commitment for a writing gig which was discussed a few months ago and, next season, I'll make sure it happens.
Writing. Creating. Changing and rebuilding.
Often there is a great view from the back door, too.
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