“I don’t know who I’d be if I wasn’t writing.” - Dean Koontz
This is nothing new. Days like today. When the air is thick before the sun's up, a tepid soup in the dark.
Maybe you're used to it. Maybe you're prepared. Even the best part of me never seems to be.
This is nothing unusual. When the world feels sticky like Summer. Humid. Viscous. Dense with the heat and the struggle. The struggle to continue. The struggle to go on.
Maybe you don't even notice anymore. Maybe you're resigned. But, no matter how many times it happens, even the most solid part of me never fails to be shaken, never fails to be surprised.
To say that this an irregularity would be a lie. When the temperature feels higher than the thermometer reads. When despite my ability to be punctual, to be consistent, to show up to my desk on time, the writing declines to do the same.
Despite my attempts to share my presence, the words still refuse to.
Maybe you've accepted it. Maybe you take it in stride. Even the surest part of me feels defeated. Even my head feels too hot to think.
It happens all the time. More times than my calendar can track. Perspiration at room temperature. Pacing between sentences and refills. Looking out into nothing. Trying to find the words for something I don't know how to say. This span of peaceful tension. The daily work of composition. Between waking up too early and leaving for work too late. It's a special kind of torture when the page will not be anything but blank.
Maybe this is where you practice patience. Maybe you don't even have to practice anymore. Maybe you've got it down to an art. Even the most stoic part of me is anxious. Apparently, it's an art I haven't quite learned.
If you had a dollar for every time this occurred, you'd pay me to stop complaining. You'd pay me to go away.
When it's warm enough to sweat through my resolve, this one hour of writing goes on for an eternity. When you're staring at the ceiling. Staring at the walls. At un-typing fingers. At un-touched keys. It's an endless amount of time to wonder why you bother to do it all.
You could have slept for an extra hour. You could have gone to the gym. Maybe you could have watched the sunrise if you were so inclined. Prayed if you still believed. You could have been anywhere. You could have done anything.
Even the most apathetic part of me knows better. Even the most beaten part would still choose to be here. Between the yellow glow of an Edison bulb and the blue light of a screen. Hot and stifling. Sitting. Waiting. (Not) writing.
And still, there's no place I'd rather be.
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You've eloquently described those moments when the world feels heavy, when inspiration seems elusive, and when the writing process feels like an uphill battle. It's during these times that even the most dedicated writers may question their commitment. Thank you Duane, for sharing this heartfelt reflection with us. It's a reminder that, even in the face of adversity, there's truly no place you'd rather be than at your desk, doing what you love.