Today marks the start of a new practice. 1900 words typed per day.
It's been nearly two years since I committed to daily morning pages - three full pages written longhand, around 1900 words with my tiny handwriting in a standard sized dotted Moleskine (red, always red).
Morning pages taught me that I don't need to be inspired to write. That "I don't know what to write, this is stupid" is an excellent way to get your pen moving. And that once the pen is moving there seems to always be something ready to come behind it.
I write not because I know what I'm going to say, but precisely because I don't. It is through the process of writing that I learn. That my thoughts become clear and take form.
I've wanted to write books for years. There are hundreds, maybe thousands of shorter articles kicking around, from commentary on creative process to political theory to advice for trans girls (there are more types of tights than you'd think, choose wisely).
150 days ago I started writing and posting daily. Often not more than a few lines. I learned that I didn't have to know how people would receive my words for the saying of them to be important to both of us. That the conversation arises from the sharing itself.
But not everything is for sharing. There is a creative process that must occur behind closed doors. The process of working out what's inside us on the page into something larger. It's only after this process of excavation begins to reveal something of a larger shape, that the images we show to others begin to have meaning.
Morning pages are the initial shaping of the raw material, the convulsive ejection onto the page. The daily blog keeps me connecting to community, to the real world, facing outwards.
But to craft something deeper, longer, more complex, more true, I commit to this new process of excavation. For myself first. To find myself on the page, spread out over many days. To see what comes. To understand that I don't need to know where to start or end to begin.
I wrote 1919 words tonight. It was not my best writing. But that judgement is worthless here. Its value is in having been done. One word at a time.