After a stretch of muzzled silence, I’m picking up some things again—writing types of things keen to be heard, yearning to be explored, insistently nudging at legs and arms and hands to go, to try, to get to work, to see what will pass the muster, what will crumple with a whisper or at a shout.
I can be fairly proficient at tuning such things out. Getting busy with other things is rather effective, particularly things which seem to be of greater importance. (There are the things which in times and seasons do need to take the front spot, but I’m not speaking of those things.) They are the things which I’ve heard (directly or not) from others (and myself) when the writing is tough and the dreams seem silly and quite out of reality’s reach, when tired/frustrated/overwhelmed by things little and big and in-between. And, honestly, plainly, I can procrastinate like a boss. Like. A. Boss.
But again … and again … again and again, I keep coming back. To words and stories and hope and redemption and the every day stuff found in all of it. To the desire, the breathless “What if –“ possibilities imagined in quiet times of bravery. What of books and hard-but-rich careers/lives/work that can thrill and terrify in a singular sentence of thought?
It’s again time to go, to try. And, perhaps for the first time – genuinely – it’s time to get to work. It’s time to try and to fail and to try again, to see what comes of it all.