Tonight I am happy. I type this entry from my desk under the window, rain pouring outside, vibrant pink flowers spilling out from a canister on the counter, leaning as if to read over my shoulder. I think often about my next great body of work. Will I finally sit down and write a play? Is my next great poem on the horizon? The words on my tongue like scalded tastebuds. September has brought about so much in so many areas of my life that I don't have the heart to try to steer myself in any one direction; I feel truly that the right moment will make itself known to me, the right words will emerge onto the page when they're ready. For now, in the meantime, I write everything else. I write about the moment of writing, the painfully relieving process of letting words spill out of your pen like blood from a wound onto a linen page to stop the blood, but the words keep bleeding. It's terminal. The wound won't heal until you get out the bad blood. And finally, words come along to suture the wound, to stop the hurt. You are free again to write about more than just anything. To write passionately. To write good comedy. To write about the time you couldn't stop bleeding. It's all within reach at the end of your arms. No matter what you write, write with feeling.
It is October now. A new month bearing a new purpose and new feelings. I'm so grateful.
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