I’m finally starting to understand that there will be no annunciation. I have been lied to. You have been lied to.
Being a writer is not about being touched by the divine; an angel isn’t always going to breathe over the writer’s shoulder and whisper greatness into her ear.
Though there will be moments where the writer is close to bursting- where she can’t wait to get home to write down the stories that refuse to stay put inside of her- the majority of the time writing will be as normal as brushing teeth, taking a shower or cooking breakfast.
The practice of writing is rarely an Insta-perfect high res photo of a perfectly cooked piece of quiche served on a designer plate. It’s often more likely to be 2 scrambled eggs haphazardly dangling off a slice of untoasted bread…eaten on the subway….in between a large crackly piece of aluminum foil.
Don’t get me wrong: writing can change lives. It can cause anger, it can cause tears, it can light a fire in someone’s life or make someone feel heard…
But, each moment spent writing on the typewriter or the laptop or the five star notebook or the McDonald’s ketchup smeared napkin is not divine. It is work. It is practice.
It is a decision to detach from the result, and trust that the words coming out were meant to be shared.