Tonight looking at this big wide open screen is daunting.
I began, erased, began again. The way I usually write is to Write. I write. I hardly ever edit.
But, I tell myself, this kind of big blank is not surprising after a long day, work, driving, busy-ness.
But, I tell myself, I saw so many beautiful things today– a million different kinds of ice. Ice along the edge of the river. Iced over mill ponds with snow. Swamps with ice showing motion, where the ice melts just enough for flow, and then refreezes. Ice that reflected the sun in bright swaths. Ice that was dark. Ice that was light. I saw snow being made on the north side of a small ski mountain. I saw snowflakes on my car window, coming from a clear blue sky.
It is not as if there was nothing.
It is just hard sometimes to sit down and reconnect with things like that. To even remember the moments of seeing the sun slant through the woods….
So I am writing this to suggest to all of us to wait it out. Wait out the silence. Wait out the blank page. Be with it, uncomfortable as it may be, because, as my wonderful wildwords writing group knows so very well, writing about not being able to write is still writing. And painting with water still counts.
