Yesterday I tore everything I own from wherever it was hiding and stared at it intently before putting it into one of two places: a pile (store, ship, gift, goodwill) or right back where it came from. In-between, I walked to the park across the street with a curly haired blonde girl and watched her swing while her daschund chased iguanas through poinciana petals and around the canal.
I thought to myself, as I walked through air so thick with humidity it was edible, of writing and plans for leaving the tropics. There’s a point to this navelgazing, I promise.
Of my 29 years alive I’ve spent 25 here. In my 18th year the first thing I read in my undergraduate career at UM was an old Playboy article given to me by my English 102 professor. The students there were essentially the dumbest I would share a classroom with in my 4 years there and every word of it was lost on them.
The article was about how the greatest threat and most intimidating thing to an author is a blank page needing filling. As someone who had been writing since he was 12, every word rang true.