There’s a place I reach outside of it all.

It’s shitty and it’s distraction and it’s like forcing it, which sucks, I’ve never liked forcing a single goddamn thing. Even in childbirth I wanted to get those fuckers out quick and cut off this pressure to Do.

Then, it’s like I’m barrelling forward and abruptly I fall.

Slip under the skin of it all and it just all flows so nicely.

I used to make the mistake every goddamn time in thinking I had to be under that skin first to even begin, when I now know it’s something I reach through movement. Occasionally movement in that sharp real-ass world, but more often than not, movement across the page. Filling blank space without that fall until a misstep lands me blissfully there, and I can go back and fix the part I trudged through later.

As a real professional writer, I have a deadline, now. I opened the document and my eyes went glassy, so I came here. Here there’s a question to answer, each time. Every time, I can at least start somewhere. It becomes something else and I let it. Rarely do I edit these fuckers.

Maybe eventually if I keep going I’ll be able to write more of my fucking book.