Intimidation

Oh, Lord. Another blank page.

I hate blank pages.

My immediate reaction is to fill it with something. With words. With sense or nonsense. Something.

I am sitting at my most favorite bar tonight, a pint right here, the jazz floating about my ears and mind and body—waiting, waiting for the words of inspiration to come.

The truth is, and years ago I'd have been hesitant to admit it, I am intimidated by writing. What if I say the wrong thing? Or grow out of what I say? Or run out of things to say? Or don't really believe the words? Or, worse, believe them to my core and lay myself bare to the criticism of the people who trip across what I write?

Tonight I sit in a mostly empty bar listening to a drummer, a pianist, and a sax player. They don't seem to have any qualms about filling the empty space with their notes. They play. To me. To the walls. To the bartender. To whoever has ears to hear.

And I am the better for it.

Throughout this entire frustrating day, I have been waiting for this very moment: the beer, the keys beneath my fingers, the music overwhelming my senses. I have looked forward to the release that comes from jazz and from writing.

***

A point made. The players just finished a song and one of them said, "Well, I wasn't sure exactly where I was—all of the time." It is an apt comparison.

I don't know where I am all of the time in my writing. In fact, I don't have a clue where I am most of the time in my writing. Especially these days as I return to a writing life. What does it look like? Earlier risings to put some words on pages? Later nights to record moments of the day? Scribbled notes on scraps when ideas strike? Journals filled and scattered about my space? Constant vigilance for insight and inspiration? All or none of the above?

I do not know. But when I get words out, I am the better for it.