The first word. Perhaps even before that...maybe the first keystroke. Every time, it never fails...the hesitation...the ambivalence...the dread of putting it down. Every time. That’s how I know I'm not a "real" writer. Before I start, I have such pent-up contempt for my own abilities. If I am allowed to incubate amidst the mire of outside influence for even a day's time, I return to this state. Who knows where it comes from. I've decided not to explore the origins of my doubt. It's all bullshit once I get going. A sentence is all I need to pierce the threshold and never look back. Until, of course, the next time. But once I'm rolling, I can't even IMAGINE that state of mind anymore. Like a curse lifted. I'm in a convertible in the painted desert, turning around and looking at something we passed miles ago, now on the horizon. What was that? Oh well...what's ahead is much more interesting.
What's ahead are the STORIES. Floating in from conversations in diners, in discretionary gossip in elevators, cell phone outbursts in public parks, half-remembered morning dreams, unearthed memories from early childhood...the crib...the womb. So many stories.
There is a common thread. Many threads. Connected by tone and "theme", maybe...maybe a more abstract component (gosh, let's hope so). The clues are there. Gotta' get the team together for one...last...case...