Back to Basics

I woke up early this morning and, instead of debating if I could effectively rub one out before my 6:00 AM alarm[1], I wrote. Twenty-ish minutes. No stops. I did the same last night before bed. After reading from Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones, a.k.a. My Writing Bible, I knocked out a ten-minute free-write. Was it good? Can’t say. I can say that I did it.

This matters because I found myself staring at a rude-as-fuck blank screen when I tried to post yesterday. Since fasting from Instagram (making this my primary medium of choice), I lost my “post every Wednesday” rhythm. Arbitrary as it was, I work best in a routine. On this day, at this time, I do this thing. Without it, I’m stuck.

I need to write.”
Do you? If you have nothing to say?

Me, to myself.

Yes.

Especially when I’m bitching about how bad writing feels. You don’t think your way out of a slump — you give yourself permission to write the worst junk in the world and work through it. We’re talking about practice. Not just the craft of writing, but the act of vulnerability. If I can’t let you see me be bad at this, I won’t let you see me. And that just won’t do.

In this, writing reminds me how to live. We start over, again and again. For better or worse (definitely worse), we call this a “re-brand.” We change our social handles, wipe our profiles, announce “New Me.” Annoying to witness, yes, but necessary.

On a random Wednesday night, I began again. I opened an old book, a new page in an old notebook, and put pen to paper like I’d never done it before. And if I want to be good at this (which I desperately do), I will do so again and again.

Journey of a thousand miles or whatever.

_____

[1] Some women use foundation to achieve a morning glow. I prefer orgasms.

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a girl named rob

I used to be "skinny black girl." I'm now a slender woman on the other side of 35 with no new moniker who is not quite interested in writing under her given name. Still writing my life, a day (or some months) at a time. Also, still black.

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