writing is like…

Today it’s a little like traipsing along a woodsy path—pleasant enough, but dense with fallen logs criss-crossing the way in front of you, leafy branches smacking you in the face, foggy rainy mornings sometimes lasting all day.

Strangely, you don’t mind the journey because you like being outside and you get that nature is a little wild. Then suddenly, there’s this clearing full of sunshine and blue sky and you think—oh, yeah, I’ve heard about clearings. (Not that fog doesn’t have its place or that you mind rain when it’s gentle and cleansing; even storms bring a certain excitement.) But these clearings, they’re a nice change with the shrubbery over to the side, less in your face, less trying to trip you up. It’s like you’re somewhere, rather than just hacking your way through brush, hoping for the best.

You can’t see how the path winds and turns from there, and you’re probably right in supposing there’ll be more damp leafy debris waiting up ahead—hills and valleys—massive fjords even—but it doesn’t matter because when you’re in that clearing, the purpose of the journey makes absolute sense—and in that moment, that millisecond, whatever’s up ahead only feels welcoming.

And so you continue…

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