Writing is an unfolding of what’s going on inside me as I talk to myself on a pad of paper or a computer, a version of talk therapy that requires neither appointment nor a fee.
Dark comes early now. The landscapers have taken away a good portion of the fallen leaves and we wait for snow.
I just want to hunker down and write, but life keeps intruding. There’s always the pulling between the inner and the outer worlds. I’ll tap and scribble a few lines this morning, but that’ll be the extent of the work for today.
Broody, I wrestle with some things. I remind myself of what I learned in other dark seasons.
I pull up to the drive-through window and the aroma of the writing elixir wraps around me. It is a fitting season to hide away, drink coffee, and lean in to the intimacy of words.