It is difficult to write today. Not that I have a particular block, just that the work week drained me. I am much more interested in reading (four new books on the coffee table) than showing up in front of a blank page. Writing is work and to paraphrase my friend Catherine, you get to only enjoy a few moments of glitter. The rest is sweat.
If I have to work today, I’d rather mop my hardwood floors- which I did. And not lazy-man mopping, only maneuvering the mop head around furniture. I moved my sofa, I rolled the bed away. I swept up dust bunnies so large they reminded me of childhood cotton candy vats that spun airy fibers into a kind of wig. I’m a tidy person, but still the dust collected. I pictured my mother’s eyes assessing the mound and figuring exactly how many days I let this carnival dust bunny grow under my bed.
This only validated my need to mop instead of write because obviously these dust bunnies would have tried to suffocate me overnight.
I thwarted them.
When I was a kid and inexplicably sneezed in succession in bed at night. I heard a singsong voice coming down the dark hallway from my parents’ bedroom, “Someone didn’t vacuum so good.”
“I vacuumed!” Achoo!
“Not behind the bed.”
I feel like this sneezing memory is much like the nagging blank page in my head. It wasn’t going to go away until I did something about it. No matter how much I wanted the page to write itself today, I had to work at it like rolling away an unwieldy bed from a wall.
I am reminded of the words of so many great writers, mentor and artists who talk about creative process and their work. Two words: Show up.
So I stared straight at this blank page and found words after I moved some furniture in my mind.
I finally got into the rhythm of work and felt the pleasant steady pulse of satisfaction.