Ok, great. I'm going to sign up and pay $5 for what?
Writing is punishment. Writers love to write but then when we write it feels like you're bleeding.
Bleeding out stress and hate and love and fear and --
Words. I love you words. Without you, what would I do?
You've been there for me when I need you and when I don't.
When I look around you're there. And when I'm not actively thinking of you I'm with you.
We all are.
But I think you're under-appreciated.
Perhaps it's because people think you're overused.
You aren't overused. You're simply overextended.
Because if I slow down, get calm, and feel peace.
I see and feel the cadence of words.
Words: you are a dance that never ends. You are the cry of my soul and the laughter of my heart.
Through you, in you, and surrounding you are galaxies of wisdom that have yet to be explored.
In you there is irony, meaning, understanding, and resolve.
And the words people write. These words I write this morning. They matter.
But the secret behind words is in the dance. The flow. The feeling. The rush.
What's going to happen next? What is he going to say?
Line after line after line after line.
Anticipating. Waiting. Wishing.
For that moment of clarity.
The rush of excitement.
The desire to dance.
To get caught up in something
That is real
That will make you feel something
Again and again and again.
Words remind us that it's ok to be human.
Alright, I'm 1/3 through. And I've got to say: the idea of writing morning pages rubs me the wrong way a bit. I mean, why would I write something to myself that no one will read? 750 words of writing every day that aren't monetized? Shutter at the thought! No audience, no one to tell me how amazing my writing is? Why continue? Why do it?
Here's the shocking truth: I don't know. I don't know why I would continue to write these words. It's almost like there is no purpose.
But still, I rise. I write.
Because something is nagging in me to do it. It's as if there's a glimpse or a prize or a reward of some sort that I know is coming. That I know is right.
Yes, at the end of this hell is clarity. At the end of this workout, there are endorphins. At the end of this romp, there is a climax.
Because I will tell you this, it takes some sort of crazy fool to say these words:
"I am a writer. I write. Oh yes! It's time to wake up at 6 AM and write my morning pages!"
Wow, what on earth is this madness?
Who knows, who cares.
Perhaps this is the point.
Maybe the point of writing every day is to exercise out the demons so you can be fully you.
Writing is a squeegee.
And it's a freaking expensive squeegee.
It's so expensive. It costs you everything. You can't hide. You can't run.
The monetization melts away. The business sense dies.
It's just you. Mortal, wonderful, crazy you.
OK, things are pumping now. I'm at almost 550 words and I think we got rid of a bunch of excrement.
I am feeling better, actually.
I wasn't feeling bad before. Honestly.
What will happen to these words? Who are you that is reading them?
Are you relating to this? Are you feeling the same things I am?
Are you a writer? Do you have something to say? Don't we all.
Freaking say it. Screw brands.
You aren't a brand. Well, you sort of are. Everyone has a pretty unique name.
We are all brands. No no. No, we're not. No monetization.
Just write to write. A writer who writes to write right.
Wow, 750 words are no joke. It feels so self-indulgent. So weird.
Have you ever tried this?
Don't do it. No, I'm kidding I think you should.
I'm marching towards something. Some sort of clarity through this whole thing.
I don't think it'll be shared with the world. But it'll be known by me.
Or maybe the world will know.
I got it!
Writing is deceptive because it tries to pitch itself as something you do.
But writing isn't about doing.
It's a daily reminder to be.
Be writing. Be writing all day and all night.
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