I know you don’t have time. I know that you may be at the beginning of the process or, worse, some where in the middle, and that middle looks like a big dark hole without relief or rescue or air. But do it anyway.
Your life is busy. Really busy. Your days are full, and next week is already jammed in your mind so that you’re starting to feel overwhelmed at my slight reminder that next week is next.
Creativity is far from you, even if there’s a little spark of wonder, discontent, and upset at the bottom of your stomach because you really are creative when you humbly say so yourself.
Give yourself room to make space for the words. You can’t make them come, but you can clean up the clutter that makes them uncomfortable.
You can close the door so they’ll feel welcome and confident that they won’t be shown prematurely to the world. They won’t feel like the naked things that they are; they’ll have time to explore the space behind the closed door. They may feel so hosted that they’ll stay a while.
You can turn on that lamp that makes you feel like doing something great, the one you bought at a yard sale before you moved into your new place. You can tell the words that they’ll be glad they came to dance in such a dazzling space.
You can sweep away the dead dry insects from the corner near your writing space because your words hate dead insects. You can turn off your phone and grab a pen and close your eyes and write your ABCs until the letters turn into words and the words turn into sentences and the sentences into the ideas underneath the noise of outside.
Imagine that you really are a storyteller, an idea machine, a keeper of some gift for the world. Then go sit down or stand up or walk around and write. Do it on your phone. Or on somebody’s permanently borrowed laptop. Do it on a legal pad, in a red moleskine, in an old ruffled spiral notebook, or on scraps of torn envelopes from mail you didn’t read.
Write the words.