“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” -Ernest Hemingway
I don’t know if I could call myself a writer and not have that quote stir something within me.
Writing is no simple task. Sometimes – as many authors know – it can serve as a kind of exorcism, as we surrender our fears and hopes to the page.
Sometimes the words, the motivations, the muse are all there at the same time – and the prose flows from fingers to the page. More often, it can be like hacking through a nasty underbrush of words that just won’t come together and pages littered with the dreaded -ly’s.
Regardless, you walk away when it’s done having left a bit of yourself there – on the page.
I’ve gone months, sometimes years without writing. But always, somewhere inside of me, there’s a yearning to fill an empty page with a story that has been rolling around inside of me.
Is it a need to share? Or is it a desire to fill up a blank space with meaning – like a nervous babble to fill awkward silences?
I’ve grown restless these last few months without writing. My fingers itch to weave thoughts into words, into stories.
Do you know the feeling? …of a story somewhere taking shape? Something slippery in the wet darkness that eludes capture….its tail tickling your legs as it speeds past to the hiding places just outside of reach.
Maybe I’m out looking for my story. I’ve only to catch her, you see…
and to sit down at the typewriter and just, well…begin.