I can’t write. My heart hurts.
I must write. My heart hurts.
I don’t know if all writing lives on the corner of these two streets, but I suspect it’s true of the writing that matters. Writing is surgery, the kind of have to perform on yourself without anesthetic in the most drastic of circumstances, the kind you have to get through or die. There’s a reason so many writers say writing fast is the only way to write.
I have not been writing fast. I have not been writing at all. The little daily hurts, the news, the mundane disappointments, the spiritual paper cuts, build up and fester without writing. They mildew like the spoons that get tossed one by one into the office sink. I skip writing for one day, and four months later, I find myself going mad.
Then I remember that the only way out is through. I have to write.
I have to write because my heart is full of the names of the murdered, all the hashtags that should never have been.
I have to write because my heart is longing for my students who suffer because their parents will not see them.
I have to write because my heart is glad in the moments of laughter I want to share.
I have to write because my heart is an unfinished thing.
I have to write because my heart is aching to connect.
I have to write.