Words are Flowing Out Like Endless Rain Into a Paper Cup

If you write every day, is it prayer? A form of prayer. Or squid ink? Or a strand of floss on the bathroom floor. If you write every day, do you go to heaven or hell or Graham Green’s desk. He wrote a page every day. Think about it. I still say write by hand, still believe it’s a form of prayer, contact between the pen and page, pressing down, your singular handwriting, your hand. If you write every day you will get better. There may be a sentence you’ve yet to write that wants your blood. Are you prepared to give it? And what would you steal? A kidney? A phrase? A shade of blue? What if you wrote every day and found a wee pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, or three pieces of coal or an Abyssinian cat. What if your sentences choked you to death, or cradled your head, or played Gin Rummy waiting for the ultimate discard? What if you wrote an unrecognized masterpiece, or the emperor’s new clothes were Gucci?

How often do you write and what’s your excuse?