Just when I’d planned to be writing more, creating more
Just when I’d found myself a writer’s group, and a reader’s group too
The river of words ran dry.
Every writer seems to have the same advice: write every day. Get your words down, even when they’re dreadful words, with no particular destination, no significant point, no one to read them but you.
I don’t disagree.
But I have “failed to practice [myself] the kind of behaviour [I] expect from other”… writers.
Am I a writer, or not?
Anyone can pick up a pen, or open up a word doc and start pecking at the keys.
“When words are many, sin is not absent.” A truth I’ve practiced, again and again.
Sometimes, silence, rimmed with gold, speaks loudest.
Still. I’ve missed the writing. And it rained last week.
And teaching others just a little bit about writing got me thinking about writing.
Not just teaching it. Doing it.
Even in the desert places.