There are things we do that do not seem productive.

Writing at times feels like one of those things.

You commit to being alone for a certain amount of time to put your thoughts into words for others. Sometimes for yourself. There are those days when you feel like it is the least productive thing you can do. What you don’t know is it is truly a letter to yourself about what you knew, know and are capable of. What matters is you sit down and you pour a bit of yourself out; when you do you actually fill yourself up. It is the weirdest thing. The thought you had interacts with the thought you are having and then your mind plays between the two. Your written word and your un-vocalized word (your minds humming).  You sit and look like a person doing nothing. To the unseeing you are not productive, to the knowing a world of possibilities is flashing through your skull, the evolution of ideas, the death life and rebirth of things you want to say, need to say, or get paid to say.

At times you sit down to write, and then before you get up you delete the whole damn thing. You say, “I will have to start again tomorrow. All of that time, wasted.”

For a writer nothing is written until it is read. Just like a business, nothing happens until a sale is made. The most human thing a writer can do is not be out there working with his or her hands, trying to keep up with someone else’s social ladder, No, the most human thing a writer can do is communicate and connect with another mind, sometimes their future mind.

I hope you all have a great weekend. It has been along week. I hope this post makes sense. Enjoy the work.