Why I don't write

Because I stopped drinking coffee, smoking tobacco and eating sugar. 

That's as good as taking away the pen.

Because my kids. The kids. Every time. Them. Like a knife they cut me away from the place in my mind I need to wander, get lost and take really long times to return from.

Because my fingers hurt.

Have you seen my laundry piles?

In the morning when i really like to write, now I drink tea and draw.

There is this french TV show and it’s really, really good and I can’t seem to stop watching it.

 Why write when so many other people have written so many other things that are so much better?

Because there is a large and soft chair by my front window next to the bookshelf and the light waves in like golden water and their words fill me up whole.

Because I am lost. And I am not looking to be found.

I don’t have that small red room with a velvet couch ike the psychic once told me I needed to write in.

There is something exquisite about not needing to say a thing.

Fuck it, nobody pays me to do it.

I am more interested in seeing right now.

Then being seen.

My life is kinda boring.

At night, when I usually like to write, I now like to smoke pot and paint.

Aren’t ya’ll just so sick of hearing me say the same old shit?

My desk chair is so damn uncomfortable.

I am boring myself. I am like torturing myself with how boring I am.  Except that I am loving being bored.

I’d rather dance.

There’s also so much yoga to do.

And the nettles. The nettles are coming up.  My hands need their sting.

And then I have to make things with the nettles.  

And the beach is just walking distance from my house and when I’m there, there is nothing to do but listen. And the realize my messages have nothing on the seas.

The kids steal all my good pens.

And draw in all my notebooks.

I am spiritually constipated, soulfully backed-up, and wild-womened out.  

I feel like I am in a deprivation cage.

Too many things that are too hard to tell live in my heart.

Because if I started I may never stop.

The animal inside me, the one with the long claws and awful breath, is ferocious and ugly as fucking ugly gets.

People keep asking me to do other things. Pretty little things.

I keep forgetting to say no. I keep forgetting I don't really do pretty.

Whiskey seems to have lost it’s trick.

I swear to god. I think I need glasses. I can't even see the traffic lights let alone the words on a screen.

I have a puppy. And he shits all over my house.  And that's like a full time job in itself.

My hair is too long.  

I need to take a bath.

My belly hurts.

Words aren’t actually making any sense to me right now. 

I don’t feel like apologizing for the rude and cunty and offensive things I probably would say if I decided to write.

Fucking feels much more expressive.  The bodies on sheets make a better sound than pen on paper or fingers on keys.  Plus it burns more calories, supposedly smooths wrinkles and smells like god.

Writing gives me wrinkles. And it doesn't smell like god. {well sometimes it does}

I am kinda a masochist.  Keeping myself from writing is a pure act of self-denial pleasure.

It feels good to hurt a little.

Hurting a little can sometimes make writing really pleasant.

Because I'd rather talk to you than write to you.  I'd rather see your face and touch your expression and when I say what I say I want to hear your voice back.  And I'd rather listen to you tell me things,  close my mouth and sit on me hands and open my pores to take you in. Be my teacher, show me your way.

Because there are long periods of deep, full body inhales.  

I am breathing it all in right now.

And writing is really about breathing.

And breathing is about living.

And living is compost. And from only there can my words grow. 


But I am done now.  Done with the not writing.  I am done with all the reasons why I am not doing it-  even though those reasons are good ones, great ones, worthy ones.  I’ve been a writer all my life and this much I know: there are seasons that are still and silent. There are seasons that feel like you are suffocating words and strangling meanings until they beg for death. And you hold them just above that edge, because you will bring them back to life. Someday.  There are times when nothing is worth pumping your blood in ink.  I don’t believe in muse as far as staying or leaving goes.   I believe in creative chaos.  Sometimes there are island explosions and sometimes there’s just a meadow with a barely there breeze, a place to lay and rest and worry or let go. To store up energy. To allow the wordless quiet do what it does. And it's always quiet before the storm.  And I think I hear her coming. 

Are you done with all the reasons you aren’t writing?  If you are, be done with me.

Spring is the rise up and the word out.

Let’s write. 

Join myself and four other fantastic humans that are also mind-blowing writers in Our Word: the collective guide to intuitive writing.  6 weeks of wordplay, storytelling, process + prompts.  6 weeks of community, accountability and creation. We will work with words and stories around the ideas of Place, Naming, Truth, Vision and Embodied.  

I'm ready for the quiet to end. You?