“Writing is the only thing that, when I do it, I don’t feel I should be doing something else.”
There’s a sort of thrill
In a well-worn notebook
And a secluded corner
Scribbling out half-formed ideas
With ink stained fingers.
Don’t get me wrong—
Confidence is no friend of mine—
But in these moments
I almost feel it:
Like I could almost do anything
But I can definitely do this.
As I stare at a blinking line
On an empty word document that’s been open for hours
Trying to decide what order
That my thoughts should go,
So they fit perfect like puzzle pieces,
And maybe I’ll get it wrong
The first dozen or so times,
And everything I do is still singed with self-doubt.
But I realize,
There’s nowhere and nothing else that I’d rather be.