How can you write when you don’t think you have anything important to say?
And I didn’t. Thirty plus years of believing I didn’t have anything of value to say.
What you do is just sit there, staring off into space.
Sometimes you write reams in your head, but never get them down, and then you forget them.
Or maybe you write some stuff anyway, feeling bad the whole damn time.
Then you hide it, or burn it, or lose it.
Thinking “I have so little to say” while writing is like swimming against whitewater,
and slamming into rocks.
It’s wet and cold and frustrating and painful, and demoralizing.
But he did have something. He had more than he had time for.
“I have so much to say.”
Those slow, careful last words have become a beacon to keep me on course.
To guide me back to making scratches of ink on paper, or to these keys.
And to the sheer joy of making words work, of taming them.
And of re-working them.
And to the satisfaction of getting my ideas out of me, and out there.
Maybe there is value in these musings.
For now, I have decided to think so.