I lay in bed and words swirl around in my head, some sentences, some paragraphs, some letters. Letters comprised of words that don’t even have punctuation. It’s a Facebook post and then it’s an email and then, maybe it’s a book then a photo caption. A topic. An ache. A longing. A desire.
I need to write. Something burns within me like an artist craves to feel the brush between her fingers. She aches for the smell of the paint and the white of the canvas and the quiet moments of the creation. She struggle without the picture, questions without the next step.
“Dip the brush in the paint.”
Make yourself available. You cannot begin without paint.
“Touch the painted brush to the canvas.”
But what is my end goal? Where do I go from there?
“Take the first step.”
I get out of bed just enough to grab my computer from my dresser. Oh, that a mechanical processor of words can fit teetering on a book beside my deodorant and spare change.
Opening the computer I’m not tempted by the usual distractions. Facebook has no hold on me; I don’t hear your siren song tonight. Evernote. Notebooks. Writing. New Note. And so we begin.
“Ask God where to begin,” I’ve told myself for a year now. Still no direction. No direction but this one – dip your brush in the paint. Learn to hold the instrument. Practice your brushstroke.
Here I sit at one in the morning, exhaustion grasping my runny nose and sore stomach. The urge to create capturing my mind and heart. Write on, oh dear soul, write on.