the rite of riting rong

Giving myself permission to put pen to paper and allowing ‘it’ to happen is as daunting as it is delighting.

The ‘It’ is the magical stumbling across the screen or page, allowing the words, language, images, doodles (the latter I consider a form of writing, think cuneiform or hieroglyphics), to flow.

A lot comes up, especially emotions. Is it the click of the keys? The scratch of the pen? Whatever the cause, my feelings begin to stir. Some can’t wait to be heard or ‘fount out’ while others scurry into darker corners, deeper caverns.

Boredom saunters over. Judgement’s not far behind. He’s got a big index finger and loves to point at things: that undotted letter ‘i’, that squiggly red wave under the word I spelled wrong — on purpose.  Judgement tells me to go back, fix it, stop! make corrections. Name calling ensues when I don’t stop: Idiot. Stupid. Who said you were a writer?

Keep ‘riting. In a little while there will be editing, pouring ‘It’, this flow, into a structure, a choreography.  

It’s a dance. A ritual.

The rite of writing wrong.

And it’s alright.