The other day, I wrote about how only amateurs wait for inspiration to write. The real writers write, no matter what.
But what if I can’t think of what to write? My mind is blank right now even as I’ve got the screen and cursor poised. Despite a clamouring chorus of ideas that jostle for space when I’m in the shower, at this moment, I’m peering into a blank slate.
In a way, this emptiness is to be cherished. Nothing to say. Or at least, nothing that feels urgent to be said. When was the last time you found yourself in this spacious, inert state?
It is delicious. Nowhere to move to, no agenda to pursue, nothing to achieve. A respite, welcome after the frenzied rush of the day with its myriad pressing matters that don’t actually press into anything, they just evaporate once the stressed hour has passed. Muddied waters slowly still the churn. A calm settles.
Meditation. Allowing thoughts to rise and then to fall, without sorrow. Embracing them and letting them go with the same detached fervor. It’s very hard to follow, but simpler than the path of indulging the thoughts, which only generates problems and entanglements. Acceptance, it’s the secret.
This is a bit strange, to elaborate on a vacant state of mind even as I formulate sentences that show up on the screen. Can the two coexist?
I think yes, I suspect this is what those great geniuses meant when they talked about flow.
P.s. I wonder how this piece will be received by my wonderful community of followers as well as the larger world. I am committed to my recent vow to write, write, write. It’s an experiment in style.
Dear reader: if you care to, will you let me know how this style worked for you? I’m trying on different voices. Thanks, in advance.