When I don’t keep writing regularly I begin to fear the words on the page, what they might way, what they might mean. I fear how the words in my head sound to the rest of the world. Is there sense in them, however strange? What exactly do these things that I try to articulate say of me? So I keep the words in my head and I don’t write them.
When I don’t write I begin to fear the first onslaught of inspiration, that it will drown me or a draught will follow that first inspired fragment. I fear that I have forgotten the order of words and the order of logic until in a fit of restlessness and by the light of a cell phone I scribble madly on paper in the middle of the night, unable to contain another word in my head. Another thought cannot exist for the fear of losing the last for fear of capacity reached. If I don’t expel these words they’ll explode forth involuntarily at a time which I will be unable to capture them. There they will float off into the ether, lost to me. They will fall silent on the air, never heard, never written and never read.
Suddenly I write again.