But this break isn’t really about writing.
It’s about practicing other things that allow for greater compassion.
I regularly seek coffee-shop clarity.
So that my posts come out as more than vague thought-clumps.
So that community comes.
Really good writing cuts to the core instead of dancing around the edges; I’m afraid that I’ve been dancing around a little in my neuroses—a stifled jig at the edge of my bed, my head.
In some safe spot that rests on a foundation of stuck-sadness, muddy and thick.
Real writing requires transparency and movement.
I glimpse little pieces of this in the paths that condensation drips draw down the window panes, mini-rivulets carving clear streams through the fog.
Good writing carves new pathways between hearts.