Write On

I write to feel alive. I write for rhythm. I write to feel real. I write at night and early in the morning. I write what’s in my head. I write when I’m dead. I write to feel okay. I write when I’m happy. I write when I’m sad. I even write when I’m in between. I write because I feel the importance of expressing my creative side. I write about people. I write about things. I write to remember. I write to forget. I write to get things out. I write to keep things in. I write for love, and hate it must be said.

Writing is fun. Writing is safe, even if what I write scares me. Writing is the collision of ideas spiraling into letters, words, and sentences until they become paragraphs or chapters that make sense, or don’t. The making sense bit isn’t always important. It doesn’t have to. Sometimes it’s about letting go and learning to trust the process. It’s good not to question it too much. Writing makes space to think, to create, and to be bold. Writing is hot. Writing can be cold, hard, and uncomfortable. Harsh in its knowing. It takes me to uncomfortable places that need visiting. Writing doesn’t give a fuck. It says what must be said. No holds barred. Writing breaks the rules. Writing holds its head. Upright and proud no matter what.

Writing doesn’t always do nice. Writing is the mystery within. The light that never goes out and the darkness that is always there, reliant on one another to exist. Words tumbling onto the page demanding to be seen and heard. Hope. Fear. Happiness. Joy. Sadness. Anger. Madness. Regret. They fill the emptiness with their compassion and understanding. They fill it with confusion. Writing holds my hand when the going gets tough, when I lose belief, and when I doubt myself or others. Writing never judges. It doesn’t even judge itself. Writing is a brain fuck, a tumultuous tumble into the abyss, a joyous escape from the monotonous mediocrity of relentless routine. Same shit, different day, except writing is always takes me to a new place.

Writing can be slow or fast. Pen or computer. Moments when time passes so quickly it feels like it’s suspended. The flow taking care of itself. It knows the right speed. The right time. The right place. All I have to do is show up. That’s the hard part. And when I do I often find myself racing to keep up. The words come so quickly, without pause, like they are coming now. Free and easy. Self-confident. Always ahead of themselves. I wonder where they come from. I wonder what they mean, and why more often than not they seem to make perfect sense, to me anyway.

Writing fuels my brain with possibility and takes me places I wouldn’t ordinarily go, to the corners of my brain that lie in darkness waiting for the light to begin. It allows me to make sense of my surroundings, and the people in my life who have left an imprint, good or bad. They are all inspiration. I can sit in my house and be somewhere else entirely. Writing is like the Burren, the rainfall harsh, and unforgiving one day, followed by a scorching sun the next, the Atlantic breeze blowing off the everyday cobwebs. Just like us writing has moods.

It is the flow of the unconscious untamed. So often life is about containing our feelings, behaviours, relationships, and fitting in so that we don’t offend anyone by being different or standing out. Walking the other way is often frowned upon in ordinary life, yet we worship rock stars and others who show us another way of existing. Writing is where the river flows downhill towards something much bigger than itself. A trickle becomes a torrent of ideas until they collide with a final full stop. The pen lay flat on the table until next time. It waits patiently.

And there’s always a next time. There’s always a tomorrow. There are always fresh ideas. There’s always hope. There’s always the next sentence. A character pops into my head when I sit on the train, destined for the page. A story developing over a cup of tea and a sandwich in Simon’s Place, inspired by an engaging passerby. I have to write it down there and then, otherwise, it’ll be gone, forever. It’s so important to catch the thought when it’s in its infancy, bold in the extreme, untamed, young and vibrant, desperate to be set free from its memory.

Writing brings stability despite its unpredictability. Unpredictable because it is unconscious. It’s outside the box, dangerous, with a sharp cutting edge. Sometimes people who read what I have written will question it, but that’s exactly what I don’t do. It’s about trust. It comes from somewhere within, I don’t think about what I write the first time. I leave that to the editing process, concerned with building on what’s already there, working on the flow, and allowing it to develop organically when it’s given the space to do so.

Even now as I write this with a busy day ahead, writing brings me into a peaceful place called now. Writing can make later wait. When I write now’s all there is, knowing that has seeped into other areas of my life. I find it much easier to focus on the present moment. The skills we learn to utilize in one area of our lives are often transferrable. With that awareness comes confidence and safety. Sometimes time stands so still that I’m no longer chasing it, no longer hoping that the day is over before it even begins.

It still takes effort though. Writing means showing up. Like anything worth doing it requires time and attention. I’ve read lots of advice from different writers, they all say to show up and be regular. And it makes sense, it won’t happen unless you do. It doesn’t have to be the same time every day, although structure helps. It can be done in a quiet moment on a busy day. The rhythm of my heart slows as the words speed up, catching the glow that reflects doing something you love.

So whatever it is that makes your heart sing, do it and keep doing it because it’ll make you feel good when you do.

Make time, not excuses.

Write here. Write now. Write on.