Writing

Reading is wonderful. Reading is escape
Writing is hard. Writing is work.

I can float along in some other world
Another person
With other-world rules
And other-full friends.

The pace sinks into
My pulse.
.
..
.
..I live and love and laugh
And sometimes cry or
Flinch

No, I don’t think I’ve ever actually flinched.
But I cringe over imagined embarrassment for another
Or worry.

It’s beautiful
And real.

But writing means looking inside
Examining my mind
The mind
The subject, the thesis, or plot, or detailwork. Understanding.

I have so many stories, lined up on shelves
In paper and hardcover
Tucked under my bed and stacked on the floor
One or two under the towels in a cupboard in the bathroom.
On my computer, any computer, saved to my favourites
Stories shared, unpublished, completed and uploaded.
For my entertainment.

I have so many stories, lining my mind
Replayed before bed, scenarios detailed
Ideas in doodles, thoughts as I walk in the cold morning air
Unwritten. Always unshared.
Because of the problems. Some block. The mood. The work.
I can escape when I read, when I dream, but when I write, this escape
Becomes something.

Needs to be faced. Wants to be known.
The pressure is more powerful than a mood, than a block.
It envelops and controls.
It subverts and disallows.

Perfection and necessity, where movement is impossible.

But sometimes everything clicks.
Or it’s not right right away but you write right away anyway and the block melts away.
By the end, you’ve begun, and you can go back and fix it
But not always because sometimes it gets stuck like that.
But that’s fine sometimes.