Had anyone noticed, I wondered. I’ve been writing on fumes and somewhat increasingly desperate to skip a day, frustrated by the emptiness of ideas, terrified that skipping a day would lead to skipping two, and then I’d reset the streak (something like 320 days). Stubbornly edging toward the precipice mirage of a goal. But what then, after a year? Something more focused, either thematically or narratively.
When I started writing here, I’d averaged out the advice of the writers I admired, and had listened to, all of whom suggested that you just needed to write, and just write every day. Don’t fret so much over the general quality. I’ve been trying to write too hard (or not at all), squeezing the last drop of salt water from a skipping stone across the months of this ocean, wave by wave, not saying much. Trying to avoid having a voice at all.
I’ve sought out, or passively placed myself in a hot seat, repeatedly over the last few months seeking advice, and it all seems to come out to the same similar refrain: stop thinking so much, and just start doing. It’s sung in different ways but I keep trying to point the left speaker at the right and let the noise be too loud to listen. But I should pay attention to the pattern, and hear the same song on the inside. The writing was, and could yet again, be part of that action and doing. Even on fumes. Just don’t draw attention to the fact that you’re coasting downhill to the next gas station, clutch in neutral. Let gravity’s inertia carry you forward.