Every morning

Every morning I come into my office,

sit down at my desk, record the date and time,

and for thirty minutes, sometimes longer, 

I open my journal, select a pen, and write.

The first words, the first thoughts,

sometimes play hide-and-seek,

wanting to sleep a few more minutes

before playing on the page,

shy, perhaps, about revealing themselves,

or still sleepy, unsure if they're

ready to begin.

Once the pen touches the paper

and a spot of ink appears

beneath it on the page,

those words and those thoughts

gain courage and strength

and begin to race each other

onto the page to see who will be

the first to appear, 

flowing like a stream,

gaining momentum and force,

like a river merging with the sea.

Each word another drop of water,

the letters like sea spray

released by waves crashing

onto the shore,

rivulets forming in the sand

as the tide retreats.

You can feel your breath

ebbing and flowing

at the beginning

and end 

of each line,

leaving diamond crystals

glittering on the sand,

and shells you've never seen before

waiting to be picked up

and carried away.

Trust words will come

To find out what you're thinking

you sit and write for thirty minutes,

each word like a knock on the door

and you wonder what's hidden on the other

side and if you should answer.

You start out not knowing what you'll find,

which words will appear in what order,

yet you trust words will come out of 

the silence, out of some mysterious

source you've never understood.

Even after years of sitting every

morning, writing page after page,

this process is still a mystery-- 

how (and why) words appear 

the way they do, and what you'll find

on the page after you finish writing.

It's like waking from a dream--

not knowing where 

the dream came from... 

or where it went.

What I love about writing

What I love
about writing with
a fountain pen

the moment before
I begin writing
when the pen's nib
is poised above
the page

and I can see
its shadow
curved
like a face
staring up from
the paper
wondering
what the first word,
the first letter,
will be

And how it will feel
to touch the page again,
shadow and nib
kissing the paper,
their kisses
leaving a trail
of words
behind.

--

Each morning
writing
is
like jumping
out of a
plane
and
praying
the parachute
opens...

--

I love the precision
of a fountain pen's
sharp nib

the mysterious way
ink flows onto
the paper from its
point

the clean lines
the way letters form
beneath it
on a page
that was blank
a moment
before.

--

Look -- footprints
in the snow

ink stains
on the page

smudges on glass
evidence

someone was
here.

--

Savor the silence

Take a moment to breathe.
Just wait before touching
your pen to the page

and let the blankness
of the empty journal
wash over you

like the waves of the sea,
like the silence of an empty house,
like the pause between breaths.

Just listen for a moment to
how the white page, not yet
filled with words,

sounds like walking through
falling snow, and not a single
footprint marks a path

and the possibilities
of where you might go
are endless.

Take a moment to breathe,
to savor the silence of
the empty page.

Just wait before touching
your pen to the page,
and then begin...

Ready. Set. Go!

Twenty minutes each morning—whether I’m ready to write or not, whether I’m sleepy or awake, whether my back aches or my fingers hurt—I write.

Fast. Nonstop. For twenty minutes.

It’s like digging fast. Just digging. Taking a shovel. Putting it into the earth. Lifting soil. Repeat. Again and again. Twenty minutes. Each day.

There’s something about getting the hand in motion, about the brain-hand-motion relationship, that starts the words flowing and gives access to a part of the brain ordinarily hidden.

Come out, shy brain!

These morning pages—twenty minutes, fast!—seem to awaken it, help it move into the light, help the words form and begin flowing down my arm to my pen.

I can’t say why it happens or how it works—like how I can’t say why a car engine comes on when I turn the ignition key. All I know is that it works and the car will take me where I want to go.

(On some level I’m curious, of course, but not curious enough to research the science behind it. Just knowing it works most days is enough.)

So, each morning I turn the key in the ignition. I pick up my pen. I open my journal. I click the start button on my timer (which I set for 20 minutes). And I write.

What I discover depends on so many things—my mood when I awake; what might have happened yesterday (or last week) or right before I went to sleep; what I might have dreamed about (or not dreamed); what I remember on a given morning; what emotions might rise to the surface.

Anything and everything can trigger a reason to write—a note on Facebook, a story in the paper or on the TV news, a conversation I had with my brother, thoughts about an upcoming trip, worries about a family member’s health.

I never know what will appear on the page before I sit down at my desk and begin. It is a mystery.

It’s a mystery that contains the question: “What happens next?”

Writing is the only way I know to answer that question.

What happens next?

Write... and find out.