It’s the kind of morning when I don’t think I have anything to write.
I don’t feel any need to say anything new.
I feel empty, in fact.
Yet here I am sitting at my desk waiting and wondering what I might find on the page today.
It’s just ink and paper, yet there is a kind of magic that happens when you mix the two together.
You can’t predict what might happen.
The moment the nib of your pen touches the page—whoosh!—something percolates inside your brain, and your curiosity is aroused, and you wonder what will emerge from the other side of your consciousness.
So you write to find out.
Maybe it’s a memory that you pull from a far-away time in your life.
Maybe it’s a dream that haunts you after opening your eyes.
Maybe it’s just the sight of sunlight falling through the window as you get out of bed.
Maybe it’s nothing more than the sound of your breath or the sound of your pen scratching the surface of the page.
Or maybe it’s just the feel of your chest rising and falling and the pulse of your heart beneath that reminds you of the waves of the sea and how you’re part of a universe extending beyond where you can see.
And so your pen takes you to places you might have missed if you hadn’t decided to sit down to write.
That’s the thing about writing.
It’s a mystery tour of the inner workings of your mind and heart.
You never know where you’re going until you get there.