I decided to start writing whatever fills my mind at the time my purple, limited edition G2 pen glides across the page. Right now, that’s happening at 11:42 in the morning while I’m sitting at a table inside District Donuts. A warm, glazed donut is resting on the aluminum tray to my left, presented just a few moments ago by a kind waitress, along with a small cup of brew. This is my first time sitting in DD to write. See how I cleverly acronymed and then made an acronym a verb? I practice things like that often, even when they’re poorly executed or plain silly. I also generally hate lazy acronyms, but you never know what type of weird and fun things come from just going for it on the page. Language is beautiful and should be played with often. I think I might write a piece one day called “Acronyms” to document my frustration with acronyming at times.
I am sitting at DD even though I am a Starbucks faithful. Sitting in different environments continues to stimulate me in various ways. Perhaps these writing sessions will satisfy my quest to reach some sort of writing catharsis, if such a journey is comprehensible to the non-writers who navigate life without a tactile need for the page. I need both page and pause at times. [Did you notice that I avoided using a transition for this paragraph? Neither have I used one for the next one. Does that annoy you?]
I need to blog more, and maybe this is the thing blog pages need. More transparency, at least to help readers understand the gaps in my blogging, or the gaps some writers experience in publishing—whether on a blog or in a book. Check the dates on my online address—none of the time stamps present in a consistent pattern; albeit, I strive to be a consistent writer. Maybe my randomization of content is representative of how inspiration hits me. Sometimes the ink is dry and the inspiration silent. Trust me, I need those times for my busy mind that constantly processes the world through my laser-sharp observations. Quiet thoughts are a welcomed companion.
However, sometimes God reaches to me in dreams and pulls me from my sheets at three in the morning, causing me to reluctantly wipe the sleep from my eyes and pick up a pen. I try to listen and write. Sometimes God speaks while I’m mid-conversation with a friend. His voice is calm, familiar, and inviting, while the friend’s voice drifts into the distances of my mind. I have learned the art of robotic nodding, well-trained for these Divine nuggets God drops into my spirit when He’s ready. I try to remain a ready writer. Sometimes God speaks words for me to pen in prayer, and sometimes He tells me to put the pen down and read, study, build [I avoid the serial comma here—I am weighing disowning it altogether, inspired by Trevor Noah’s Born This Way).
That’s what becoming a writer is like for me. God taught me how to separate His voice from my own ambitions. I’ve learned how to pause, listen, and make margin in my life for quiet times. So here I am, sipping on a vanilla Cappuccino, pondering the world, observing my environment, flipping through books. Just waiting for God to speak and inspire the next movement of my pen across the page.
FYI: I teach my students the Oxford comma. Don’t worry.