A letter to myself on writing

Thinking puts the thinker in the observation box, constantly gazing in from an outsider perspective. Why is this like that? But, what about you? Who dissects you honestly? Your thoughts don’t care about you, and neither does your writing. Writing is something you put out, a passing of something you saw, thought, or felt. The lifespan of a good sentence is only a few seconds. From mind to fingertips, words are dead to the writer once on the page.

So, what do you get if only the deep exhale of a task completed, only to look at another empty page? Well, you get to kill words. You get to put them somewhere, out away from their inception. You get to create movement, and only then are you able to make room for the new by discarding the old.

Stagnation is nature’s infection. The cleanest of drinking water tuns rotten in the absence of movement. A clean river provides a never ending loop of water, entering your field of view before it flows out of sight. But, if it were to slow down long enough to stay in view, it would not be a clean river, but a muddy pool.

Writing, especially when in flow state, is as temporary and fast as clean flowing water. Only in view for a few seconds before it continues its journey down the river. And yet, there is always water in sight, just like there is always a computer and an idea. The only drinkable water is fast flowing water. Don’t let things ruminate, get them out. Open the spigot and allow water to move. Put it down on the page, and question it later.

Simply getting it out is the victory. Write more, not for the sake of an end result, but simply to encourage the water to flow.