Wait For Words

Wait for words:

there’s really no wait for words, although I often use the phrase as a description of the writing process, of how patience and silence play such vital roles in all that’s ever creatively expressed. But perhaps waiting is too active a word to use here, implying a slight impatience for the creative flow to resume, or that silence alone isn’t enough to sustain my interest. At this point in my creative life there isn’t really a wait for words as there once was a few years before, now I see that silence is it’s own fruitful reward, containing the possibility for every word that follows. Waiting alludes to the wish that something must follow whatever’s happening in this exact moment, and hopefully soon for the sake of the writer. Yet with that we miss the subtle richness of the moment’s silence, lost in our urge for words to always greet us, waiting, and completely missing the essence of our writing.

it’s silence that sustains us.


of course I’ll probably use this turn of words again, it’s convenient in its description and certainly it sometimes feels like a wait for words to find me. But not as often as before, I’m apt to enjoy the pause of writing and to simply be content in silence, that there’s true poetry found here without a single word yet offered. This cures my eagerness to write for the sake of writing, helping me correctly identify that silence alone is the real author of every word given, a creative source I’ve long taken credit for. There isn’t really a wait for words because it’s that very same sense of false authorship that finds itself waiting, a phantom at the keyboards, eager to prove words as the heart of it’s existence. I’m not that author, or at least not solely so, no longer identified as the appearance of a writer. There’s just writing as it happens, and silence in its absence, seamless, everything belong to the exactness of the moment.

with nothing really to wait for.

mostly now I’m surprised to see words on the page, somehow filled through the mystery and magic of this moment. There was no wait for words here, and yet still they found me. Writing seems more to be the grace of words appearing, happening completely on its own and allowing me the credit. There was nothing to ever wait for, not really, words and silence belong to the exactness of their moment.



Peace, Eric




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eric mccarty

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