Sunday, December 2, 2012

105 day 90

you're not a writer until you've at least envisioned yourself, stationed at a typewriter, coffee, tea, or wine by your side, holed up in the room farthest from the front door, with one window to bring in light and life and songs of birds or trees or random drunkards spewing poetic belligerence at hurried passer-byers pretending they aren't even there. 

until you've dramatically blown dust off keys, taking tedious care not to hit the "S" key, as it tends to jam by the slightest of touch.

until you're wearing a cosby sweater and your hair is a mess and you haven't showered in days because you just have to get this out, whatever "this" is that produces words on paper with or without your willingness. 

until all of technology abandons you, and you don't even bat an eye at the prospect of having to write your entire book, all 50,000 words of it, on a paper napkin, in, either, crayon or blood. this story must be told. and you must be the one to tell it.

but in truth, you're not writer until you eliminate every cliche thought of what a "writer" really is...and just...write. anyway that you can.