Free Write

It’s no wonder I can’t work. My words have been frozen inside me for so long. Each bit measured and weighed before being released into the world to roam. Always worried about success, always worried about representation.

Wanting to spill the words forth and down, cascading onto the page and out, out, out of me. Like the working writers I know. Making writing my work and letting myself be nourished as I go. Along.

Wanting to work and drift at the same time. Wanting the easy answer, any answer. To be at peace with my self, at peace with life and not to be fight, fight, fighting against every moment and every emotion and every subtle change of pace that I can come up with.

Hungry but not wanting to stop for food. Good with my writing. Better than R, who will submit himself with bluff and bravado, but who desperately needs to bring in an income while I am okay with what I have and trusting in God that there will always be another chance.

Maybe just let him go on his way and help him as he goes. If his writing gets good, my prices will still be the lowest of them all. Not very competitive, me. At least not competitive on that level. Not out there trying to build more business when really I am quite content with the obligations that I have.

Maybe set up my own business interests. Create a name. Business cards. Draft a letter to mail. I don’t know if a bulk mailing is the best way to go. But it’s aggressive and it’s confident and the universe repays effort, I know.

Okay, here’s something at least. A crumb of what may come for me if I simply sit and write each day in the way that I know how to do…