Because the alternative is bleak.
Sitting myself down to write after a long summer in the sun. A summer of dirty feet, dancing feet, adventuring, being out in the world, not here at my laptop, in my head. I’m working on a novella, a compilation of travel writing I did when living in Spain several years ago. My screenplays whine at me, my novel haunts me still, but I needed to do something smaller, more compact. And I’m going to publish it myself, forget the big publishers with their big agendas, I just want my work to be in the world.
Took a break from writing yesterday and went on a run. The way the breeze hit my skin in an upward motion, the hint of ocean on the air, made me feel like I was in Bali again. Then I glanced up at the palm trees, and realized, I am in Bali, right now, right here in Koreatown. Once I’m writing, back in the grounded/floating territory of my mind, I can access all places, all beings across time. That’s what writing is. Playing at God.
I’m remembering how arduous prose is, how you have to slow the fuck down and unpack each idea. That you might return to a phrase, a sentence thirty times before getting it right. This makes me weary so I cheat and check my social media, read about the fun my friends are having, wonder why I’m home in my pajamas, fiddling at my laptop and eating popcorn while the youth act young.
But I know why. Because I’ve got words inside that kill me slowly until their release. And because the greatest adventure is always in my mind.