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This is what I love about writing: the physicality of it and the mess, the rush of words and the trying to keep up with the flood how I got a new pen with fresh ink and so I’m trying to reclaim my wrist this fat fast smooth ache —
what I love about writing is harnessing what’s intangible, impenetrible, the desperation to get inside fully the thing that has no words, not really, the truth is writing is a chase, trying to catch the breath of the words, the thought, the fist thing that flashed across behind the tongue of my imaginings before it’s snipped away by loss or ego or don’t say that or reconstructive tendencies.
What I love is this reaching, teaching myself to breathe, to drink, to eat while I write keep the wrist aching, move through that burn into the true good stuff, how the words aren’t more important than the race, and they are.
