“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”

This quote, famously, if perhaps erroneously attributed to Earnest Hemingway, resonates with writers, myself included, for a reason. Not to prop up the myth that we must be suffering artists, for whom writing and living a creative life is painful, soul sucking, but to express the reality that writing, or creating in any way, forces us to access the deepest parts of ourself, explore them, and bring them to the surface. Only here do they find new light. Only here do we find freedom.

Writing, for me, can feel so many different ways. Depending on the moment and the subject matter, on mood and material. Perhaps it’s that roller coaster ride of emotions that’s so appealing, in a way. Through writing, we have the ability, at our fingertips, to create worlds of our own imagining, or to understand and appreciate the one we already inhabit. It’s an opportunity both daunting and inspiring, a wellspring of pain and joy, just asking to be expressed.

Writing feels like stumbling through the darkness, brushing against the spiky stalactites of a pitch-black cave only hoping to find light on the other side.

Writing feels like screaming into the void. Hearing only the echoing silence of your own voice and wondering if anything you have to say even matters.

Writing feels like running, jumping off a cliff over and over again. Falling and falling. Coming face to face with fears and moving forward anyway. Towards and through them.

Writing feels like touching the most tender parts of yourself, pressing on them like a bruise, allowing the pain to ooze out from an open wound. 

Writing feels like fishing for the intuition of your soul, diving into the murky waters to uncover that mud-caked, long forgotten gem of knowledge.

Writing feels like untangling all the lies we’ve spent our lives learning and following frayed threads of curiosity towards life’s greatest truths.

Writing feels like sitting with all the characters you inhabit, all the lovable and infuriating parts of yourself converging into one bad dinner party that you only hope will be redeemed by dessert.

Writing feels like thinking so hard and so long until your brain gives up and allows words to simply flow.

Writing feels like a playground of possibility.

Writing feels like a dance with no choreography. The trusted steps of craft and effort and perception and intuition all twirling into some form more stunning than the sum of it’s parts.

Writing feels like stepping into a stream – cool and crisp and refreshing – shocking the senses back to life.

Writing feels like skipping through a dew-damp meadow in spring, bare feet racing past the tiniest, most tender, wildflowers. Picking them, holding onto their beauty.

Writing feels like colorful petals unfurling, soft and gentle, strong and bold.

Writing feels like flying, soaring, above it all. Free and untethered and boundless.

Writing, with all the emotions it evokes and truth-telling required provides a horizon line between darkness and light, always moving us towards a new day. It will feel hard at times, certainly, rife with fear and doubt, all too easy to give up. But then, there will be moments of clarity and beauty and healing that make it all feel worthwhile again. Keep writing, keep creating. The world needs a chorus of voices harmonized by the unique wisdom each of us brings.