Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Dear you,


and the road fell away behind us
and slipped back into place before us;
and the yellow lines were our footprints
before they happened.
all we could see was the sky
and each other’s eyes.
it was paradise.
-Letters, vii

(day ten)

I received a question today, and it struck me as an important one- so I’ll share.

Question: Some days I love to write...others I am blank....is this common?

Answer: To say that it is common would be an understatement; there isn't a writer in the world that can sit down, every day, and feel fresh and alive. Writing isn't a gift we are given, it's something we beat out of ourselves with as little mercy as we dare.

And the more I think about it, the more I realize that this is true of any ‘talent.’ For some absurd reason it is too easy to fall into thinking that talent just comes, or that a person having talent no longer worries about their particular profession. When I daydream (and do I ever), there is a definite disconnect between the dream and the work involved. I daresay I’m not alone in this disconnect; and whatever it happens to be a product of, it needs to be negated if we are to seriously pursue our dreams.

And we mustn’t give up on our dreams. The world is already too full with people who have given up. We must dream our way into a better reality; and it’s crucial to note that dreaming, real dreaming, requires much more acting than the quiescent state of ‘life.’
 Viens avec moi.

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