Confessions

I'm a lazy writer.

It takes me ages to compose anything.  I stare at the blank page, and then it all, eventually, sometimes, tumbles out at once and I can't stop at the end of one thought.  The ideas run into each other, stream-of-consciousness, and my hands or fingers can't keep up.

Yet I almost never seem to have ideas.  I forget sometimes to fill my well, or sometimes I overfill it, overindulging my mind on art and ideas by others and forgetting my own or never settling down to put my own on paper (or screen).

My morning pages have consisted mainly of ramblings about the day, how I snap awake each morning wondering about my future.  Yet one day this week, the day I avoided writing as long as I could, I ended up working out an idea that was profound for me--about living with joy and delight without feeling guilt for all the blessings in my life, about acknowledging and overcoming shame, about living a full life.  And it was wonderful, how the very act of writing one thought started the process that, in some ways, has freed me.