On Writing

I've been trying to write a book for my entire life. But I've never done it. I guess I haven't felt like I had anything worthwhile to say. Or that I wasn't good enough to do it. And as much as I know that these are just stories I tell myself, still I haven't done the thing I've wanted to do most in my life.

The light is starting to feel different again. The way I see it is changing. The way it strikes through the air. It's as if something is more alive in it.

I am on a quest. It's hard to tell you what it's about. Probably won't make much sense. And it doesn't really matter.

Tonight, I took a walk. The moon was bright, Mars was red, and the streets felt different from the daytime.

The night sky was silent. A few stars peaking out. Dim lampposts lining the streets. Leaves pushed to the curb.

Someone I know said “there's something different about the autumn sun.” And I agree.

“I walk over the marsh saying I am I: and must follow that furrow, not copy another. That is the only justification for my writing, living.” – Virginia Woolf

I'm listening to Gareth Dickson. Phoebe Bridgers is queued up. There's something about the light of the early morning. I need soft music with it.

I always wanted to be a writer. Not for any sort of accolade or money. But just because I loved stories. They brought me somewhere. Made me think differently.