without theme, nor idea of even next word — writing follows, and I’m at ease with every pause, not rushing for the page to be filled, patient, trusting in whatever appears. This is largely how I find myself writing, simply with the intent to arrive at the keyboards, allowing words to find me each morning, inspiration to unfold by moments measured by a phrase or sometimes just a single word. If there is a way of writing, a path as it were, for me it would be guided by a letting go, a surrender of any belief that I’m an author, no longer in charge of means or process.
of course I never was.
words arrive completely on their own.
everything I write is mystery, and even with an outlined plan or idea firmly in mind, mystery takes hold in a course that leaves it all behind. I honestly can’t say what the very next word will be, and it amazes me to see how spontaneously things appear, not only through writing but the entire world as well, the universe writ large in the mystery of appearance. How could I possible believe myself in charge of anything, laying claim to these gifts received as if manifested by intent or force of will. These aren’t my words, and I’m not the one inspired — yet words follow, inspiration present, happening, and I find myself a fortunate participant in all, not an author, but belonging to the process, an aspect of its flow.
it would be easy now to claim this, as writing completes itself, mystery retires from this prose, a sense of ownership rushes to believe itself an author. That’s part of the story I guess, not anymore in my control than any single written word. This appearance of a self is just as spontaneous, a process too, and now it wishes to take hold of what’s nearly finished. Funny, how it all appears, words, self, beliefs, and inspiration.
and somehow too, a smile now appears.
it’s simply part of the story.