Letter from My 48th Year (Jan 9)
Some days it is difficult to write not because there is nothing to say, but because there is too much to say. Or to be more accurate, there is plenty to say but not yet enough time to have processed everything that’s currently dancing on the tip of one’s tongue waiting to be said. Waiting to speak is sometimes more painful than not having anything to say at all. I do believe in writing through things; I am firmly on the side of those writers who say they write to find out exactly what they think, to make sense of the competing noises inside their heads, their hearts, their spirits. I am, however, also firmly on the side of waiting, of bearing the discomfort as the thing waiting to be said slaloms around your insides finding a shape in which it can begin to leak onto the page. So, now, I wait….