Writing is taking a walk. No, it’s taking a stroll when you want to run. It’s a 26 mile marathon that you’re forbidden to run. It takes a long time to warm up your thoughts. To weave them. To destroy them. To kill them. And then to bring them back to life. It takes all day for one hour. An entire week for one good idea. It doesn’t work on a cold start. Procrastination is writing. Writing bad is procrastination. Writing good is procrastination. It doesn’t go away. There is no finish line. It is a marathon in the shape of a circle. One of Dante’s rings without the fire, but never with the right word, or idea, or need. A circle, a loop through the mental sludge. The pressure of time creating the diamond thought but of varying degrees.
Driving the porsche is not writing. Driving the porsche is freedom. Driving the porsche is sometimes fear.
But it is not writing. It is not writing.
And that’s why I drive.
