I can't think of anything to write. I can't think of anything to write. I can't think of anything to write.
I can't think of anything to write. I can't think of anything to write. I can't think of anything to write.
I can't think of anything to wright. I can't think of anything to wright. I can' think of anything to wright.
Wrought. What have I wrought?
A maker or builder. Of words. Of worlds. Of worlds made of words.
I'm playing with things this evening. Words. Patterns with words. Their appearance on the page. The feel of my fingers on the keyboard. The ways the letters and words appear on the screen out of nowhere but the connection between my own mind and fingers and whatever functions enable me to call, translate, send them along my neurons from brain to neck to shoulders to arms to hands to fingers. Reading. Thinking. Making connections. Deciding. Not worrying about the genre of this writing. Acting. Reconsidering. Recalling. Rethinking. Retyping. Pause.
Writing, n.
1. the activity or skill of marking coherent words on paper and composing text
2. the activity or occupation of composing text for publication
There was a slight Freudian slip the first time I typed the last phrase.
2. the activity or occupation of composting text for publication
There's the truth of it. It's more composting than composing. Digging around. Turning the soil over. And over again. Enriching. Until it's just right. Or close enough. With each turn, seeds of old thought are brought forward and see light again.
Maybe they'll break open and become something.
Creating Space: Three Months of Showing Up for What's Showing Up is a daily writing practice. Turns out that a lot of this writing explores the landscape of grief. My mother died shortly before I began this writing, and this is what I'm thinking about most of the time these days.
Katherine Cartwright has been blogging since 2012, and each year brings new wonders. She asks big questions of the small things in life.
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